Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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If there were anything alive in my car when I left for work, it would be dead from a heat stroke. I blast the air on high before my lungs my get a first-degree burn. Set on following through with the second and more important part of today's win, I take out my phone, go into the drafts folder and pull up the five emails with the filled-out University application forms attached to them. I send them all. Done.
I put the phone into the plastic holder on the dashboard and tilt the rear-view mirror to see if I really look as used-up as I feel.
The dark circles under my eyes are only a shade lighter than the brown of my irises, wavy flyaways are sticking out around my face, and sweat glues the rest of it to my scalp. I pull the rubber band out and loosen the curls around my shoulders. Now I look like a poodle. There's no winning in the looks department today. I reposition the mirror back into place.
It's after ten but nowhere near the end of my day. I have to submit the draft of the next chapter of my thesis Historical Analysis of International Marriages in Medieval France to Professor Hopkins tomorrow and finish proofreading the translation of her latest article into French. I keep swearing not to leave everything to the last day, but here I am again, hoping I might get at least four hours of sleep.
My phone vibrates.
Xavier: Are you on your way?
Damn it. I promised him to spend tonight at his place. Sex was on the agenda. We used to be good at it, but that was before too much work and not enough hours in the day made his proposition much less appealing. Something's gotta give.
Me: no, sorry, can't make it to your place. come over if you want, but i'll be cramming till the wee hours.
Xavier: No can do. 5 AM client tomorrow.
Me: how about saturday?
Xavier: Personal trainer certification seminar. Sunday too.
Me: OK.
Xavier: Are we still on for going bar-hopping on your birthday?
The digits on my phone confirm that it is indeed my birthday next week—another day, that means nothing this year.
Me: not sure about bar-hopping, but let's at least get together.
Xavier: Monday, then.
A sense of relief over not needing to spend the precious waking hours entertaining Xavier floods my veins, but not for long as guilt tinges my mood and brings back the cloud of anxiety and disappointment. Not only am I behind on schoolwork, but I've also been a shitty girlfriend, and finding time to meet up with him has become more of a chore than I want to admit.
The truth is, we have lots to discuss, not the least of which are the applications for the schools in France. Do I have the energy to answer the multitude of questions he'd throw at me? I do not. And it's not like there's much to tell. Now that Mr. Sweatpants tipped the scales, and those forms are out, my chances of getting even to the interview stage are slim.
Chris's SUV drives by. He honks at me and turns onto the street that runs in front of the store. I'm alone in my cooling car in the empty parking lot. The exhaustion coupled with self-doubt whisper how stupid I am to rely on a random dude for a decision that might flip my whole life upside down. There's only one person I can trust to talk me out of this mood— my best friend. I text Angie to call me back ASAP.
"Hey, Am, what happe—? Are you all right? —eak quickly, I only have ten minutes bef— next set." I can't crank up the volume on my car's speakerphone any higher, so I turn down the air-conditioner.
"Nothing bad, I promise."
"You better tell me what's going on."
"I think I made a decision."
"That's a first."
"Shut up. I did it. I emailed my applications." I wait for her to tell me I'm mad, or stupid, or insane, or all of the above.
"Yey," Angie squeals, "now what?"
"Now, I wait. Two to four weeks before I hear from them. I shouldn't have done it. It's too much work. I don't think I can deal with it on top of everything else. I want to get in bed and stay there for a week, or month, or..." Tiredness laces my blood with molasses, and even my head is too heavy.
"I guess it's Angie's Awesome Pep-Talk time."
"No." I slam into the headrest with the back of my head. "I'm past pep-talks. It's too much. I canceled on Xavier. I'm dreading the pages I need to turn in tomorrow. It's hotter than hell, and I'm miserable. How fucked up is it that the best part of my day was Mr. Sweatpants talking to me?"
"Mr. Sweatpants?"
"The silent dude who never looks up?"
"Oh, him?"
"Yeah, him."
"He talked to you? How did you manage that? What did he say?" Her rapid-fire questions make me grin.
"We sorta talked about coffee."
"Wha-a-at? Sooooooo, coffee? Stop torturing me. Tell me the juicy stuff."
"Don't get your hopes up. Juicy it was not. He told me about the recipe he was making while I stared at him like a complete idiot."
"Amélie." She can't miss a chance for a dramatic effect. "I don't care about food. Was there flirting?" She asks in a louder voice as if I'm a child who isn't grasping a basic math concept.
"What? Why on earth would you say that?" Typical Angie. Everyone's life is not a secret Lifetime movie. "No one flirted. We talked for maybe three minutes, tops. And you know I wouldn't do that to Xavier."
"Am, to hell with Xavier. I just wish you'd dump your asshole of a boyfriend and focus on yourself. Have some fun. Live a little."
"Stop. Xavier was with me through the toughest months of my life, and we are not going to break up over some random hot guy who happens to talk to me once." Xavier, I'm sure, has a boatload of hot clients he's never told me about. "Mr. Sweatpants might go right back to his silent treatment next week for all I know."
"Oh, I've got a feeling he'll be talking to you again. Wanna bet?" I can picture Angie wiggling her eyebrows.
"You're shameless."
"And proud of it."
"What're we betting on this time?"
"If he talks to you again, you'll watch Pitch Perfect with me." She lets out an evil-villain laugh.
"Not that movie again. You know every line." And that is not an exaggeration. Angie's obsession with that movie's never made any sense.
"Is it a yes?"
"Okay, then. But if he goes back to ignoring me, I'll choose what we watch for a month."
