Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Molly: Less stressful.
Me: I should try having less stress in my life. I can start with a cocktail this weekend. Ha.
Molly: Alright, alright. We can start with the cocktails, and I’ll even give you my address so you can pick me up.
Me: I have your address already.
Molly: Oh shit, that’s right. DAMMIT.
Me: Don’t sound so thrilled.
Molly: Sorry. I’ll dial it down a notch.
Me: So. Five o’clock? It’ll take some time to get from your place back to downtown in rush-hour traffic.
Molly: Lovely…
Molly: Wait. Do you live downtown?
Me: I do.
Molly: Then it makes no sense for you to come all this way only to double back. No sense at all.
Me: Trust me, I’m happy to do it.
Molly: Ugh. That’s so much driving…
Maybe she doesn’t feel comfortable being in a car with me. I’m a great dude, but what if she’s one of those women with major stranger danger?
Me: Would it make you feel better if I sent a car instead?
Which makes no sense because the driver will be a stranger, too?
Molly: Yes. Let’s do that.
Molly: And what’s the dress code…?
I feel like a black-tie dress code would be obvious, but maybe she’s never seen an awards show broadcasted on television before? Or attended one? Still, seems like something everyone would know.
Me: Black tie. Will that be a problem?
Molly: No. I have a few ball gowns I can dust off for occasions like this.
Me: Seriously?
Molly: No. But do not worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll find something to wear and send Old Man Wallace an invoice.
Me: Old Man Wallace? He is going to HATE that you’re calling him that.
Molly: Do not tell him I said it! Don’t you have a moral code?!
Me: Fine. I promise I won’t rat you out—THIS time.
Molly: You know who you remind me of?
Me: The most interesting man alive?
Molly: No, LOL. When I was in fifth grade, I was best friends with this kid named Max. He used to live in the neighborhood, and we grew up together but went to different elementary schools.
Molly: Anyway, I used to have to bribe him not to rat me out to my parents—or the people who lived in Tripp’s house before he bought it.
Me: The difference between Max and I are vast. 1. He was a child. 2. I haven’t bribed you.
Molly: No, but I have a strange feeling you’re going to try.
seven
molly
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
I pop a piece of cheese into my mouth and moan, hungrier than I thought I would be, considering it’s only six o’clock.
“So you keep saying,” Elias mutters.
I must have been eyeing up the brie on his plate because he passes it to me without my having to ask.
All this cheese is going to constipate me, and I don’t even care, not even a little.
“God, I love cheese.” I make love to it while he watches, eyes wide.
“You’re supposed to be my partner tonight, not ignoring me for the floating appetizer tray.”
“Am I, though?” I’m here because of my old neighbor, not because of some obligation to Elias Cohen, and we both know it.
“Yes. What does the cheese have that I don’t?”
Together, we drift through the room, mingling, smiling, and talking to no one and everyone all at the same time. It’s a strange vibe—upbeat but vibrating with phony friendships and odd pairings of people.
Massive dudes with their hair in buns, the women on their arms botoxed and dripping in jewelry. Athletes, sponsors, and team owners floating around with fake, cosmetically enhanced smiles.
What a weird night.
“She’s only called you old about four times—but who’s counting?” The statement is surrounded by laughter, but the champagne inside my mouth almost comes flying out at Elias’s announcement when he throws me under the bus to Tripp Wallace, humor crinkling at the corner of his blue eyes.
Ugh.
Why is he so good-looking?
It’s so annoying.
When the shrimp tarts come around, I grab two, popping one after the other in my mouth as if I’ve never been let out in public before, and I’m storing up for the winter.
Dial it down a notch, Molly.
You’ve had good food before!
Right, but food is better when it’s been prepared by other hands…
I won’t admit this to anyone, and I’ll probably take it to my grave— but I’m actually having a great time. Not only with Mr. Wallace and his wife, Chandler, but with Elias as well.
Who knew he would turn out to be a fun date? Correction: not a date—but you know what I mean.
Currently, he’s lingering at the bar to fetch me another drink. I watch as he leans against the wooden counter, one leg propped out, hand on his hip while he chats up the bartender. I can see that they’re sharing a laugh. Something witty Elias has told him, perhaps? It makes them both grin from ear to ear.
The bartender slides two cocktail glasses across the counter into Elias‘s hands. Elias, in turn, puts a few bills in the tip jar, earning himself another grin. I can see the bartender telling him, “Thank You,” as he wipes the smooth stone countertop.