Page 25 of So Not My Thing
“Remember I told you he spilled coffee all over me the other day? This is him replacing it.”
She dug out the price tag. “For three hundred dollars? Dang. Can you ask him to spill some coffee on me?”
I nestled into the other end of the couch. “He’s different from what I expected.”
“I mean, he’d have to be, right? You can’t be obsessed with someone then have them live up to your expectations. It doesn’t happen.”
“I was only obsessed with him for like four months until the meme. Then it was more like a deep hatred.”
“But now you’ve met the enemy and found his humanity?”
“Something like that.” I had the uncomfortable feeling that if I’d only known Miles through his last three albums, I might have been really drawn to him as my grownup self. “His newer music is interesting. Strong John Mayer vibes.”
“But younger and sexier?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She shrugged. “Didn’t have to. I Googled him myself a few days ago when you told us he’d turned up like a bad penny. Agree on the sexy John Mayer sound. But also agree with myself that he’s sexier.”
“I don’t know about that.” I was lying. He was objectively sexy. But falling for his smile and his soulful eyes was a mistake that had ruined my life once, and I wasn’t going there. “What I know is that he’s grown up since he was sixteen.”
“Yeah, he has.” She waggled her eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes. “I mean emotionally. I’ve had clients with a fraction of his money act ten times more pretentious. He’s low-key. I didn’t expect it.”
“So you’re saying it’s not going to suck to work with him on this club?”
“I’m saying I’ll live.”
“Hallelujah. Let’s toast that with wine and aCluelessre-watch.”
“You don’t get tired of that movie?”
“Nope. It’s like potato chips. Nobody gets tired of potato chips.Cluelessis potato chips for the brain.”
We settled in to watch Cher and Dionne do their thing, but my mind kept running through Miles’s music. One song played on a loop, one titled “Longing for Home,” a mid-tempo ballad about finding your place. The chorus said, “Shouldn’t have left, it’s all such a mess/Want to go back, I can only confess/Do I crave a real place or just a quiet mind/I think I’ve been looking for a home I can’t find.”
I was never going to be a Miles Crowe fangirl again.
I wasn’t going to stream his music or scrawl his name in notebooks or stalk his social media.
But that last part—finding a home—thatI would do for him.
