Page 2 of The Disasters of Dating
I turn and rest my back against the door, and a bead of sweat runsbetween my shoulder blades. A breeze lifts my hair. It feels good against my hot, sticky, wet back. What am I going to do?
I straighten up and look at my skirt. Can I pull it free? If it’s just the edge of it that’s stuck, maybe I can pull it out. I close my eyes, sending one last positive vibe into the air, then tug.
It doesn’t budge. Maybe it needs more than a tug. Maybe it needs a full-on rip or yank. Taking a healthy wad of the fabric into my hands, I white-knuckle pull. But it’s to no avail.
Hot frustration works its way up my back and neck, popping more beads of sweat along my hairline and temple. What did I do to deserve this? Did I not just help an old lady? Do I not get any credit for that? Come on, Karma. Work with me here!
The shuttle bus comes toward me, and I make eye contact with Roger. His gaze narrows, and little wrinkles form at the corners.
I sigh. It’s times like these that I wonder if perhaps I should have gone out with him a second time. He may not be a gentleman, but he’s human, right? He’ll stop and help me, surely.
I step to the side so he can see that my skirt is stuck.
He smirks as he drives past. The jerk.
Any residual guilt I’ve carried for turning him down washes off me. Not that I should feel guilty. I mean, Mr. Darcy he is not. He’s more of a Mr. Wickham (sans the evil intent) and Mr. Collins combo. It was one of the reasons I declined another date. Well, that and his bad breath and body odor. And his inability to keep his eyes above my neck or off any other woman in his general vicinity.
I frown. But maybe I shouldn’t call him names. It’s possible he’s calling the security office this very moment—although the smirk makes me doubt that’s the case.
I pull my phone from the front pocket of my bag and text Sheila.
Well, I got into the parking lot, but now my skirt is stuck in my car door, and my keys are sitting on my front seat, safely locked inside. I’m so sorry! Am I totally screwing up your day by being late?
Also, could you please call security and ask them to come open my door for me?
I lay back against my car and shut my eyes, rubbing at my amethyst fiercely as the warm sun soaks into my body. I relax. The worst of my day has got to be over. I mean, seriously, how much worse can it get?
The security car finally arrives and they open my car. I’m annoyed, I admit it. But I’ve been standing here, trapped by my car door, for more than half an hour, waiting for them. And in approximately 3.5 seconds, they have my door open. Like, I could already be at work if they hadn’t taken their sweet time getting here. But they offer me a ride to the terminal—which means I don’t have to see Roger—so I guess I’ll forgive them for making me wait so long. Yeah, I know. I’m a giver.
I’ve never hurried so quickly through security. I jog on the people mover in the terminal, trying to make up time—as if that’s possible. But if it is possible, it’ll be on a people mover—mark my words. They’re very handy in these types of situations.
Finally, in record time, I reach the cashier’s desk in The Wandering Reader newsstand. I bend over, putting my hands on my knees, and try to slow my breathing.
I pant out a sigh. I did it. I finally made it to work. I glance at my watch. And I’m only an hour late. Facepalm.
I stand up and offer Sheila a big grin. “Okay. I’m here. You can go now.”
She shakes her head, her brows raised and mouth turned down. Sliding a paper across the desktop, she sighs. “No, I can’t. They want you to go to security immediately. Apparently, your parking card has been cloned and was used twice today.”
I blink at her three times. “You’re kidding me, right? I just came through security. Why didn’t they say something then?”
She lifts an irritated shoulder—not that I blame her. “How should I know?”
“I’m really sorry, Sheila,” I rub at my amethyst, but it’s not working. I’m not feeling calm or balanced. Knowing my luck, it’s probably broken today. Or maybe my chakra is so out of whack, my amethyst can’t do its thing? Whatever the issue, I wish it would hurry up and get fixed.
I roll my eyes. I can’t believe helping that old lady is causing me so many problems. You know that quote, “No good deed goes unpunished”? I’m feeling that so hard right now. “I’ll hurry. I promise.”
She waves me aside. “Whatever. Philip should be here any minute to relieve me. I’ll be gone before you get back. It’s Philip you’ll be screwing over.”
My head snaps back slightly at her verbal smackdown.
Good ol’ Sheila. I can always count on her to say it like it is. No sugar coating to spare someone’s feelings. You’d think she was like eighty-five or something. You know, that age where people realize they can say whatever they want and it doesn’t matter how offensive it is—they just chalk it up to being old? Except that Sheila is only like three years older than I am. I guess she’s just an angry eighty-five-year-old in a twenty-four-year-old’s body.
“Well,” I say, twisting one of my thin braids around my finger. “Thanks for staying late. Again, I’m sorry. My horoscope?—”
She lifts a hand. “No.”
My brows rise, and I take a step back. “No?” What is she objecting to?
