Page 36 of Play Along With Me
"Suit yourself," Collin shrugs. "But you two lovely ladies are definitely coming, right?"
"Definitely," Leila confirms, ignoring my death glare.
"Excellent. Well, we should continue our... what were we doing again, guys?"
"Looking for your lost dignity?" I mutter under my breath.
"Going to grab food," one of Collin's friends supplies. "Nice meeting you both."
"Likewise," Leila beams, waving as they continue down the hallway. "See you tomorrow!"
She finally closes the door, then turns to me with a triumphant expression.
"Before you start," I warn her, "remember that I know where you sleep, and I have access to your emergency spare key."
"Oh come on, it'll be fun!" she insists. "Collin is exactly as hot as you described, in that 'I'm kind of a tool but I know it' way that somehow works for him. And the hockey player will be there––the one you're definitely not interested in but somehow managed to get him to ask about you."
"It was a misunderstanding," I groan, flopping onto my couch dramatically. "And now I have to go to a party at Collin's, which I'm sure will be full of sports agents and models and people who use the word 'synergy' unironically. I am so not built for this kind of social life."
"Or," Leila counters, sitting beside me, "it'll be a chance to see Jake again in a more casual setting. Maybe find out why he specifically mentioned you to Collin."
I hadn't considered that. Why would Jake mention me to Collin? We barely know each other. Unless...
No. I'm not going down that road. The last thing I need is another relationship to distract me from my writing and my career goals.
"I'm not going," I declare, even though we both know it's a lie.
"Of course you're not," Leila agrees, patting my knee patronizingly. "Just like you weren't going to speed dating, or Trevor's dinner, or that hockey game."
"Stop," I inform her.
"You'll thank me tomorrow when you're having fun instead of reorganizing your three spices and stalking Daniel on Instagram."
The worst part is, she might be right. But I'll never give her the satisfaction of admitting it.
"If this party is terrible, I'm invoking the Michael Bublé incident immunity clause," I warn her. "No more using that against me."
"Deal," she agrees readily. "But it won't be terrible. And if it is, we'll make it fun. We always do."
This is true. Leila and I have a talent for finding humor in the most awkward social situations—a skill we've honed through years of disastrous dates and uncomfortable work functions.
"Fine," I relent. "But I'm not dressing up. And I'm leaving by ten."
"We'll see," Leila says with a knowing smile. "Now, let's talk outfits. What says 'I'm not trying too hard but also I look amazing' for a hockey player party?"
As Leila launches into a detailed analysis of my woefully inadequate wardrobe, I find myself wondering what Jake Marshall might have said about me to Collin. And why, despite my best efforts to remain uninterested, I care about the answer more than I'd like to admit.
The 1.5 days following my impromptu hallway encounter with Collin pass in their usual rhythm. I have my writing group's Zoom meeting, where I present yet another rewrite of Chapter Two that's met with supportive but increasingly weary feedback.
"The concept is still really compelling," Marisol offers diplomatically. "I just think maybe it's time to move forward with the plot instead of reworking the beginning again."
"Agreed," Priya adds. "You're overthinking it, Audrey. You have to just push forward sometimes, even if it doesn't feel perfect."
They're right, of course. My process is less "writing a novel" and more "endlessly rearranging the furniture in the foyer while refusing to enter the rest of the house." But something keeps holding me back from moving the story forward—fear, perfectionism, or maybe just the comfort of familiarity.
After the meeting, I open a fresh document and try to sketch out Chapter Four, bypassing the troublesome Chapter Three entirely. Two hours and three sentences later, I give up and check Daniel's Instagram instead. Nothing new since yesterday's post about their "date night at home" featuring homemade pizza and matching pajamas.
Thursday morning finds me at my other job. I picked up a breakfast shift at a café near my apartment where I work a few mornings a week to supplement my bartending income. Marcus got me the job, so now we work two jobs together. It'smindless work: taking orders, making coffee, serving pastries. But I like the morning regulars—the construction workers who tip generously, the harried mothers dropping kids at school, the elderly couple who share a single muffin and hold hands across the table.
