Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Poppy: This feels like it’s taking an eternity.
Me: Well I can’t text and drive, can I???? Not to mention, I don’t know what to wear. It’s a date but it’s like…what does one wear to the grocery store???
Poppy: Beats the hell out of me. I’d definitely look sexy, though—everything but heels.
Me: You think?
Poppy: For sure. Show some skin too and make the dads jealous. Who knows, if this doesn’t work out with Luca maybe some other single will swoop in and save you in the meat department.
Me: Okay but…what KIND of sexy? Like, Oops, did I forget to wear a bra?!
Poppy: Exactly. Go for: I care enough to show you skin but not enough to get lipstick on a rotisserie chicken.
Me: That was disturbingly specific.
Poppy: You’re welcome.
Me: Alright. I’m going home. Shower. Soft curls. Green jacket you gave me for my birthday with the black tank top?
Poppy: YESSSSS. Sexual but responsible. You shop organic but your pussy will RUIN him.
My phone buzzes again, but it’s a different name this time.
Luca: Hey—still good for later?
Poppy: That tank top makes your tits look amazing.
Without thinking, I quickly type my reply:
Me: Honestly when he sees me in this tank top with my titties out he’s gonna propose next to the canned beans. LOL
I hit send.
And immediately realize…
I sent it to Luca.
My soul leaves my body.
“No. No no no no no no no—"
I fumble with my phone like I can physically pull the text back out of cyberspace, my heart sprinting laps around my chest.
New message appears.
Luca: Well, when you get to the store, you’ll find me standing near the beans.
I want to slam my face into the steering wheel.
Another buzz.
Luca: For the record, I’m VERY pro tank top. And marriage is a big step, but I also REALLY like canned beans.
I let out a strangled noise that’s part-laugh, part-scream. My cheeks are on fire. My body is 90% regret, 10% hope he’s kidding but also slightly not.
I quickly text Poppy.
Me: I hate you so much right now.
Poppy: What the hell did I do?!?
Me: I was texting you and then he texted and I told him he might propose by the canned beans. But the message was meant for you and now I hate myself. My face is so red right now.
Poppy: I AM SCREAMING. Dead. Deceased.
Me: STOP LAUGHING. This is not a win.
Poppy: This is a massive win. For me.
Me: Excuse me while I throw myself into a lake.
More buzzing.
Luca: Just to confirm, the beans are in aisle 7. Currently debating which brand of legumes feels most matrimonial.
Oh my God.
I should say something.
I need to respond.
Poppy: Did he text back?!? I need a live feed. That one guy I fucked 6 months ago is a cop and can probably get us a body cam….
Nightmare.
How am I supposed to look at that man with a straight face?
Still. Despite my fluttery nerves, I smile down at my screen; at his name.
Luca: All jokes aside, what time should I meet you there?
Of course he texts now. While I’m in the middle of texting Poppy about that one guy she never mentioned sleeping with.
Multitasking: not my strength.
Pay attention, Nova. Pay. Attention.
Me: You did NOT tell me you fucked that guy! God I am so jealous—I wasn’t joking when I said there was a ghost in my vagina.
Me: Let’s say 3:30? I had a virtual coffee date with Poppy and still need time to go home and get cute.
A beat later, Poppy’s response hits like a warning siren.
Poppy: I think you meant that for someone else…he he
Oh shit—I sent Luca’s text to Poppy and Poppy’s text to Luca! Seriously. WHY AM I SO BAD AT MULTI-TASKING?!
My vag shrivels ten sizes, which, may or not be considered a bad thing, considering who you ask.
Ha!
My thumbs hover uselessly over the keyboard. There is no coming back from this.
Luca: Ghost in your vagina!? Are you haunted???
Poppy: Your thumbs are the problem—not me. I’ve been saying this for YEARS.
I press my fingers to my temples, willing the earth to open up and swallow me whole—or at the very least, send a Target truck to run over my phone.
I contemplate throwing it out my car window.
“Haunted?” I say out loud to no one. “Yes. Yes, I am. Emotionally, physically, spiritually—and now digitally.”
Me: I am going to throttle you. You are NOT helpful.
Poppy: What are you going to throttle me with? Your Victorian girlboss coochie?
Luca: So 3:30? Should I bring sage?
Me: Ha ha, probably… but I’m sure we can find it by the spices. See you in a bit.
11
luca
I’m early… again.
Not like wildly early—but early enough to overthink what kind of grocery cart sends the right message to a woman I’m trying to impress.
Full-size cart? Too committed. Too eager.
Hands only? Psychopath.
Basket? Effortless.
I station myself in aisle seven by the beans, obviously, because where else would I be? Not to mention, for funsies I’ve already arranged the Bush’s cans in a little pyramid; I am a grown man with zero chill and a decent sense of humor.