Page 6 of Off Script
Harper sinks down next to me on the couch, daintily tucking her feet under her long legs, and hands me a glass of wine. “Sounded like you were flirting when I walked in, but based on your current facial expression, I’m not so sure,” she says quizzically, scrunching up her nose.
“I wasn’t flirting,” I automatically deny.
“You totally were, and it’s fine that you were. Who were you talking to?” She lifts her eyebrows, awaiting my response.
As my life-long best friend, Harper is the keeper of my secrets. She knows every one of my most embarrassing moments, like the time in eighth grade when I stuffed my bra with Kleenex and my date tried to feel me up or when I had to read aloud in my high school biology class and accidentally said the word orgasm instead of organism. I might as well let her in on this embarrassing moment too.
As I regale Harper with my story, she looks more and more horrified. Gulping my wine, I plod onward until I reach the conclusion of my conversation with Brent.
“Carlisle Elizabeth! You phone flirted with a total stranger!” Harper’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“Hey! You said it was okay to flirt.”
“That was before I knew who you were flirting with." She hesitates and then continues, "Hell, you don’t even know who you were flirting with! This guy could be a serial killer or a sexual predator! You just took his word for it that he wasn’t trying to call the sex hotline. Really? Are you that gullible?”
“He explained it was a joke that his friend played on him. No big deal.” I dismiss Harper’s worries with a sweeping motion of my hand. “Besides, talking on the phone to a stranger isn’t that different from messaging a random guy on Tinder.”
“Totally different. The guys on Tinder have bios. They have photos.”
“And they lie and use AI to create the photos!” I argue.
“You can Google them! Now this guy knows your full name and where you work. He could turn into a stalker, following you around and leaving dead animals on our front porch.” Harper jumps up from the couch and clicks the deadbolt on our front door before activating our security system. “He could come here in the middle of the night and steal you from your bed!”
I roll my eyes at her theatrics. “No moreCrime Junkiepodcasts for you, Harper.”
As much as I downplay the situation, I see her point. While I was talking to Brent, I got caught up in the moment and told him way more about myself than I should have.
“Hear me out, Harper. Since we’re renting this condo, my name isn’t on any property records, so he can’t find our address. Staples King doesn’t have employee photographs or contact info listed on the website. My name isn’t linked to my social media accounts. Brent’s not going to come after me, and even if he did, he wouldn't find me. You can relax.” I pick up her glass of wine and bring it to her lips. “Drink your juice, Shelby!”
“You cannot just quoteSteel Magnoliasand think all will be forgiven.” But she grabs the proffered wine and takes a swig before admitting, “However, wine does help.”
“I am sorry though. It was stupid of me.”
She pats my knee. “It's okay,” she relents. “He sounded nice, right?”
“Yeah, he did.”Right until he hung up on me.
Now probably isn’t the time to remind Harper about how nice and charming everyone thought Ted Bundy was too.
The bass at the club is bumping, and the music is so loud that I can’t hear myself think. Which is perfect, given my melancholy mood.
The darkened dance floor, lit only with neon strobe lights, is packed with scantily clad, gyrating bodies. Since we arrived, we've been dancing, and now I'm hot and sweaty. I lift my hair off my neck and pantomime to Harper that I’m going to the bar to order another drink. I don’t feel bad about leaving her for a few minutes since we met up with some of her co-workers at the club.
After weaving my way across the crowded room, I wait my turn in line at the bar. Soon, I spy a cute guy watching me. Liquid courage coursing through my veins, I smile at him. He returns my smile and ambles over.
He’s not really my type, but maybe this guy can distract me from thinking about Brent. Because no matter how many drinks I consume, I haven't been able to stop dwelling on our weird conversation earlier. It ended so suddenly, leaving me curious and a little hurt.
“Hey,” the guy says when he reaches me. He has to lean forward and yell to make himself heard over the music, and his breath tickles my ear.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, briefly touching his muscular chest with my hand. Hoping to feel a zing of desire at our touch, I wait—and feel nothing. No attraction, no spark of any kind.
If he was a firecracker, he’d be a dud.
“Your friend, the one in the red dress. She single?” he says, pointing to Harper.
The relief I feel is instantaneous.He's not interested me. Crossing my arms, I evaluate Harper’s prospective suitor. He’s handsome in that Ralph Lauren catalog way. Classic and preppy. Perfect for Harper.
I tilt my head with narrowed eyes. “She might be. It depends. What’s your name?”
