Page 7 of Off Script
“Philip.”
“And what is it that you do, Philip?”
“I’m in grad school, working on my MBA at UCLA.”
“How old are you?”
Fast forwarding my interrogation, he responds, “I’m 27. Graduated from Stanford and then worked a few years in banking before starting grad school. I live by myself, and I like to play tennis and go surfing in my free time. No criminal history, except a few late fees from the public library.”
“You delinquent!” I kid, elbowing him in the ribs. “In that case, yes, she’s single and her name is Harper.”
Three hours and approximately the same number of cocktails later, I stagger and sway at the front door of our condo as I try to unlock our front door.
When did the keyhole get so small?
Why are there so many keys on my keychain?
Is this even the right key? Damn, I don’t think it is.I switch to the next key.
“What is taking so long?” Harper whisper-yells and then hiccups loudly as she attempts to wrestle the keys from me.
“No offense, but if I… if I cannot do this, then you definitely can’t,” I giggle, as I squirm out of her reach, slapping her handaway. I squint and close one eye.Hallelujah, my double vision has been cured.The key slides into the lock and I swing open our front door.
“Finally!” Harper squeals as she pushes past me, pulling Philip along behind her.
Yep, Harper and Philip hit it off and she invited him back to our place for the evening.
It strikes me as ironic that she got so upset with me because I flirted with a stranger on the phone, yet she brings a stranger into our home and that’s deemed acceptable behavior.
Double standards.
I leave Harper and Philip kissing on the couch as I make my way slowly to the bathroom, dropping my shoes, bracelet, and clutch along the way, like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Harper’s a neat freak. She’ll pick it up for me tomorrow. Once in the sanctity of the bathroom, I step out of my dress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor and pull on an oversized, ratty t-shirt over my head. It’s threadbare in spots, but time has rendered the cotton satiny soft. Some girls sleep in silk, but I sleep in an older than dirt t-shirt.
Champagne taste on a beer budget, sleepwear edition.
As I finish brushing my teeth, there’s a knock at the bathroom door. When I stick my head out, Philip is holding up my work cell phone to me, which I must have left on the coffee table after I spoke to Brent earlier.
“It's for you,” Philip whispers loudly, although I don’t know why he’s whispering. The three of us are the only ones in the condo and we’re all awake. He must be drunker than I thought.
“Why did you answer my work phone?” I mutter, swiping the phone from his hand. Since it’s so late, it’s got to be a horny guy who’s had a few too many drinks and misdialed the sex hotline. I’m temptedto hang up, but I’ve consumed enough alcohol to want to have a little fun.
Amping up my southern drawl, I purr breathily into the phone, “Hello, hot stuff. I’m Carlie and I’m here to be your beck and call girl.”
Philip swallows audibly. "What kind of work do you do?"
I giggle as Philip stares, mouth agape, awaiting my answer. Ignoring his question, I cover the phone with my hand and motion to Philip to scoot back to Harper in the living room, leaving me alone.
“Carlie, is it now? And here you had me convinced that you were just a sweet southern belle slinging staples and paper clips.”
I shriek when I recognize the voice on the other end of the line and clamp my hand over my mouth.
The joke’s on me.
3
Ben
As the saying goes, shit happens. And this time the shit rolled down hill and onto me.
