From the writer of Sweet Spot, comes the sequel of two familiar characters you already saw coming.
Harper Davis has many titles: marketing connoisseur, almost-lawyer, disappointment to parents, and most importantly: liar. Big. Fat. Liar. But what el...
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I have a habit of talking to myself.
Growing up I always felt like there was no one around willing to listen to me or interested in what I had to say. My parents were always busy working and the few times I did attempt conversation with them, it would end in a lecture that brought up all my past mistakes and shortcomings and ways I could have been a better daughter. I quickly learned there was no point trying to talk to them after that.
In my teen years I invested in a diary. Writing down my thoughts definitely helped a lot but I still missed the act of having conversations. So I moved on to talking to myself. Sometimes it would all be in my head with facial expressions to match and sometimes I would legitimately monologue out loud. Either way, it looks crazy as hell and has always drawn unwarranted attention.
That's why I'm not the least bit fazed at the man sitting across from me, his Starbucks bagel hanging from his mouth as he watches me with a look of genuine concern. I think he's about to cry.
"In conclusion," I continue, looking down at my notes and reading off of them. "If we stick to these rules and this outline, our arrangement should be more than manageable and both parties will likely walk away satisfied."
I nod as if Sawyer is in front of me to hear the end of my presentation but he's actually running late. Really late.
My eyes involuntarily shift to the clock and my chest compresses when I realize he was supposed to meet me almost an hour ago. I tried really hard not to stress myself out and constantly watch the clock but after rehearsing and going over my notes three times, I'm all out of ways to distract myself.
I bite my lip, mentally going through all the possibilities.
He's stuck in traffic. But it's a Saturday morning.
He's sleeping in. But he texted me two hours ago saying he'd be here by 12.
He accidentally fell back asleep. But he's never been late for anything a day in his life.
He changed his mind about our meeting or he wasn't serious about our arrangement to begin with and now you're the idiot who thought he was actually serious about helping you.
Yup. I'm going to go with the last one on account of it making the most sense given our history and, oh, you know, my general bad luck in life. Ding, ding, ding, we have a loser! It's me!
Fog fills my head, makes it hard to think rationally, and then I'm trying to gather my things as quickly as I can. It feels like there's a vice around my neck but I'm desperately trying to ignore it otherwise I might end up on the floor, unable to catch my breath.
"Get up," my mother hissed. "You're causing a scene."
But didn't she understand? While the kids around me ran around and got in line for their new teacher, I felt like my knees were nailed to the ground. I didn't want a new teacher. I didn't like change. What if the new kids in my grade were mean? What if the new teacher was mean? What if I got bad grades this year? What if I failed?
