Page 103 of Book and Ladder
I bend my head as much as I can to glance down at myself and spread my arms out to my sides. “I am.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“What? No.”
How did this happen?The woman whose every typed word made me laugh and feel seen is standing right here—only instead of teasing me with late-night banter, she’s glaring like I’m an intruder, unwanted and unwelcome.
Her hands are on her hips now. “I’m actually … Well, I’m waiting for someone. So … if you don’t mind.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”
I don’t move. I just stare at her, trying to imagine what would happen if I quoted something from our internet exchanges. Would she see me differently? Finally give me a chance? Or would she accuse me of setting her up, knowing who she was all along, toying with her?
Maybe at another time I’d have a chance, but my dad’s about to overturn her world. All her animosity toward me and my family has rightfully escalated ever since the last town hall. She’d never want me—an O’Connell—not even if she found out I’m the host of her favorite bookish podcast.
I need air. I can’t think straight.
Daisy is M&M.
“Patrick?”
“Yeah. Yes. Okay. Enjoy your night, Buttercup.”
Will I enjoy my night?Not a chance.
I don’t even know how to breathe. The woman I’ve been falling for in person and online is standing right here waiting for me—and I have to walk away.
Chapter 28
Daisy
Whatever. I’ll just date myself.
~ Unknown
DidI stand at the corn maze for another hour after Patrick walked away? I did.
Only a few stragglers ran past me. The cool night air rustled through the stalks. I stayed anyway.
I fed myself every excuse in the book: family emergency, an accident, he caught a deadly disease—one that made it impossible to send an email or DM.
Maybe he got called in for work.
What does he even do for a living besides hosting the podcast?
It has felt like I know him so well, but I don’t even know his name or his occupation. I could tell you his favorite color. How he wants to spend an ideal day. What makes him laugh. But I don’t even know the color of his eyes or what he looks like when he smiles.
And now it looks like I never will.
After an hour of stalling on his behalf, the sky has grown so unequivocally dark no one could confuse it with sunset. I even waited for the stars to come out in earnest. I finally have to admit I’ve been stood up. And Patrick, of all people, was the sole witness to my humiliation.
Dragging myself toward my car, I plop into the driver's seat—too defeated to even offer Mom and Aunt Brenda a hand in tearing down booths. I did my part—helped with setup. Now I just need to slink home and hole up in my apartment.
I replay the night in my head, taking each curve in the road with the pace of a turtle on tranquilizers.
What went wrong? He said he was running late. Wouldn’t he reach out to tell me he couldn’t make it after all? Was he trying to let me down gently? If so, zero out of ten for execution.
My ire rises as I drive. What was Patrick doing dressed like that? And why does he always have to cross my path at the worst possible moments? Pulling my car into the space in front of our duplex, I yank the emergency brake a little harder than usual. When I round the car, I see the face of the man who sets me on edge like no one else ever has—or hopefully ever will.
