Page 2 of Love Off the Rocks
I shrug.
“So, four bottoms for three days? And we haven’t even gotten to the tops yet. You know if you’d just let me mix and match a few things, you could have, like, seven cute outfits from four pieces of clothing.”
“No need, I’ve got this covered,” I say, zipping up my bag.
It barely closes.
I chose a duffel bag because I thought it looked more casual and not so high maintenance. But every so often, at times like this, I wonder if I really am high maintenance? I start to ask Tricia, then decide against it. Does it matter? I mean, how much will I change at twenty-six years old? And if I am high maintenance, who’s around besides me to care?
“Do you have a jacket?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Toiletries?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, want me to drop you at the train station?”
“Please.”
2
Mags
Halfway through the train depot, I realize the folly of packing a duffel bag that I must carry as opposed to just going with a small suitcase I could have wheeled. By the time I reach the train, I’m winded, sweaty, and my shoulders are aching. I find an empty seat, stow my bag, then pull out my earbuds and my e-reader.
I know a few other people are taking this train too, but I don’t know what car they will get on, so I don’t keep an eye out for them. Besides, I’ve been dying to finish this book. It’s the first in a trilogy by an author that I love. And I waited until the author released the other two before starting it. So, I have all three, and I can binge in my downtime through the entire long weekend.
I lose myself in the first chapter and start the second as the conductor calls, “All aboard.” I hear someone jump on the train at the last second, panting and stumbling down the aisle. The seats facing me are open, but I’m really hoping no one sits there. I’m a big believer in personal space, so if this person keeps walking on by, that would be—
“Hey, Mags, I thought that was you.” Chaz, one of my co-workers, flops into the seat facing mine. I guess if someone had to sit in my space, I’m glad it’s him. I have a small crush on him. He’s cute and funny, and we don’t work in the same department. Not that I wouldn’t find him cute and funny if we worked in the same department, but I’d have reservations about it.
He works in the IT department. Which I found funny at first. That an internet company would have IT too, like wouldn’t that just be something they would all know how to do for themselves?
The answer to that, in case you’re wondering, is no.
All that means is if I were someone who would allow myself to date someone I worked with, it would have to be someone in another department because otherwise awkward.
And, if I were to allow myself to date someone in another department, I’m pretty sure it would be someone like Chaz. Even though I hardly know him, he seems like the kind of guy I might want to date.
All of which is a moot point since I’m not that kind of someone who would date a co-worker. Because dating someone you work with is just messy, all the way around. I don’t know from personal experience, I’ve never done it, and I just imagine it would be. There’s a reason they say don’t shit where you eat.
“Hey, Chaz. Wow, you just barely made it,” I say, pulling my earbuds out.
“Yeah, I thought it would be quicker to take a Zippycar instead of a LYFT. Boy, was I wrong.”
I take in his red face, heaving chest, and wide eyes. “Did you get lost?”
“No, I couldn’t find a place to leave it.”
“Oh yeah, I can see where that would suck.” Zippycars are cool, especially in a downtown space like Seattle. You can use an app to pick up a car pretty much anywhere, drive it to where you need to, and then leave it there. Just paying for the time you used it.
Unlike renting a car where you take it for an entire day plus go through all the paperwork and insurance crap, with Zippycar you just get in and drive. “I’ve never actually gotten one before,” I admit.
“I use them for dates all the time.” He smiles and looks down slightly when he says it like he’s bashful or something—the dimple in his left cheek calling out to me, like a beacon in the night. I want to stick my finger in it. Or my tongue.
Wow, where did that thought come from?
