Page 34 of Play Along With Me
"You didn't answer the question," Leila points out, smirking. "Which means yes, he's hot, and you're interested."
"I am not interested," I protest, perhaps too forcefully. "I'm still getting over Daniel, remember? My ex who just got married? To someone who isn't me? The one whose honeymoon photos I obsessively stalk on Instagram?"
"Ah yes, Daniel the Dull," Leila nods sagely. "How could I forget the man whose most exciting quality was his extensive collection of beige sweaters?"
"He had other qualities," I argue weakly. "He was... stable."
"Audrey, a well-constructed shelf is stable. You deserve someone who's actually interesting."
"Like Trevor the Penmanship Dad?" I counter. "Or the parade of disasters from speed dating?"
"Fair point," Leila concedes. "But I think I've found the perfect solution."
I immediately feel a sense of dread. Leila's "perfect solutions" to my love life have historically been disasters of biblical proportions.
"No," I say firmly. "Absolutely not. Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it. Delete the thought from your brain."
"You haven't even heard what it is yet!"
"I don't need to. The last time you had a 'perfect solution,' I ended up on a date with a man who brought his mother along and asked her opinion of my childbearing hips."
Leila winces at the memory. "Okay, Damien was a miscalculation on my part. But this is different! My coworker Jason just broke up with his girlfriend, and he's exactly your type—creative, intellectual, slightly brooding—"
"No," I interrupt, holding up my hand. "I am officially taking control of my own dating life. Or lack thereof. I don't care if you tell everyone about the Michael Bublé concert incident. I don't care if you have photographic evidence of me crying into my margarita over Daniel. I am done with setups."
"But—"
"Done," I repeat firmly. "If I want to meet someone, I'll do it myself. And right now, I don't want to meet anyone. I want to focus on my writing and my career and getting over Daniel at my own pace."
Leila studies me for a moment, then nods. "Okay, I respect that. But just so you know, Jason is six-foot-two and has forearms that could—"
"Leila!"
"Fine, fine," she laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. "No more setups. But if you change your mind..."
"I won't," I assure her, just as the sound of male voices in the hallway catches our attention.
Leila perks up immediately, sliding off the counter and moving toward my front door with the predatory focus of a jungle cat who's spotted an unsuspecting gazelle.
"Is that Collin?" she asks, her ear practically pressed to the door. "The hot neighbor you're always complaining about?"
"Eavesdropping is beneath you," I tell her, though we both know that's a lie. Eavesdropping is precisely at Leila's level, along with "accidentally" reading text messages on other people's phones and creating elaborate backstories for strangers in coffee shops. I whisper, "He's not hot."
"It's not eavesdropping if they're talking loudly in a shared hallway," she argues, logic that would make a courtroom stenographer weep. "Besides, you've talked about how annoying he is so much that I'm curious. He must be so hot."
"If by 'hot' you mean 'looks like he practices smoldering glances in the mirror and refers to himself in the third person,' then yes."
The voices grow louder—definitely Collin, and at least two other men. I can't make out what they're saying, but Collin's distinctive laugh carries through the door.
To my horror, Leila reaches for the doorknob.
"What are you doing?" I hiss.
"Being neighborly," she replies innocently. "Maybe I need to borrow some sugar."
"Keep the door shut and mind your own business," I warn, lunging toward her. "Leila, I swear to god—"
But it's too late. She's already swung the door open, wearing her most dazzling smile—the one that once convinced a flight attendant to upgrade us both to first class on a red-eye to Chicago.
