Singer

With my head bowed and my hand cupped over my mouth, I whisper into the phone, “First, you don’t come home until after midnight. Second, you avoided all the details. It must have been a great date.”

Melanie laughs but catches herself and stops. She really does have an asshole of a boss, so she has to be careful about personal calls at work. “I’ll tell you over drinks later. How was your time with the infamous Ethan Everest?”

“Is he infamous now?”

“Famous. Infamous . . . both work.”

“What do you mean famous?”

“Stop holding back. Cough up the details. I have to go soon.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes, but those pesky tingles take over and my excitement bubbles up. I have no idea why I torture myself like this over a guy I won’t have a future with. “Sadly, it was better than any date I’ve been on in a long time. We laughed. We talked a lot. It was fun. Different.”

“Why sadly then?”

My bubbles . . . every last one of them pop. “He only wants to be friends. He made it more than clear. He’s on a love embargo, so things were left simmering after the boil of the first few hours.”

“Oh, honey. Men don’t know what they want. You’ll just have to show him.”

The door to the break room opens, and I whisper, “I’ve got to go, but text me later?”

“On it. Bye.”

“Bye.” I tuck my phone back in my pocket and push the espresso button on the fancy coffeemaker.

My boss walks into the break room—mid-twenties, manicured beard, and a custom suit I’ve not seen before. Chip Newsome’s suits cost two months’ of my rent. He oh-so-kindly let me know that once when we accidentally bumped together in the elevator after it jolted and my coffee spilled a drop or two on him. He’s not hideous, but he’s definitely not the type I’m attracted to.

Two things determine his Monday morning mood: if he got laid over the weekend and if his sports team won or lost. He can be a total asshole or a great guy. So I never know what I’m walking into until I’m already knee-deep.

“Good morning, Singer,” he chirps.

He got laid.

He hands me my freshly brewed espresso and asks, “How was your weekend?”

His team won.

“It was good. And yours?”

“Fantastic! The Red Sox won, and I ran into an old friend. Someone I haven’t seen in a while.”

I almost giggle. I’ve got him nailed—well, I guess he got himself nailed—but I keep the inside joke to myself, not wanting to ruin his good mood. I also note the order in which he described his weekend—sports before pleasure. “Oh really? That’s great.”

He pours a cup of coffee and dumps in three packets of sugar along with two creamers. With both of us mesmerized by the stirring of his coffee, offhandedly, I say, “Sounds like a dream girl.”

“Yeah.” He keeps his eyes on the cup in front of him. “Let’s hope we make it to playoffs.”

“Yes. The playoffs indeed.” I don’t even know what I’m saying, but men are obsessed with sports, and he’s making me think of Ethan with this sports talk.

He walks to the door and with his back to me, says, “Make sure you’re ready for the meeting at noon.”

“Will do,” I reply not as chipper. As I burn holes into his back, I have no idea what meeting he’s so not thoughtfully scheduled at lunchtime. No wonder I’ve lost ten pounds since starting this job last year.

When I return to my desk, a package sits squarely on top of it. I’m about to take it to Chip’s office since packages that come to this department are for him, but I’m stopped when I see the name on top: Singer Davis.

My gaze darts to the return address first. It was sent from a store here in the city, but I don’t recognize the name. Grabbing my scissors, I cut the seal. As soon as I lift the flaps, my smile is instant. Inside the box, covered with tissue paper is a navy blue hat with the Astros emblem on the front. Smiling too wide to hide my happiness, I sit down, rest the hat on top of my head, and pull the card out to read:

Singer,

Saw this and thought you could use the upgrade.

See you around,

Ethan

I’m not sure what to make of this present, but it makes me smile even bigger than I am already. I text Melanie: I just got a gift from Ethan. A baseball hat.

She replies: Told you so.

Me: Nope. Just friends. ‘I can’t practice with you’ = Only friends.

Melanie: I don’t know what that means. We’ll talk later. Boss called me into the office. Ugh!

Thinking of bosses, I tuck the note back inside the box and open my calendar to prepare for today’s meeting.

* * *

By the time I walk into the Mexican restaurant, Melanie already has margaritas in place with an extra bowl of salsa for me. I grab a chip as I sit down. “Thanks for being my best friend and knowing when I need tequila and when I need wine.” I eat the chip and sip my drink.

“Crappy Monday?”

“Typical Monday.”

“That’s the worst. I almost walked out of the office three times today with no intention to return.”

“What stopped you?”

“Remembering I have bills to pay.”

“How did we end up doing exactly what we didn’t want to do?” I ask and sip my drink. “We could have done this back in Boulder.”

“We’d be living better there compared to the cost of living here.” Melanie’s the best at giving the real deal and laying out reality. “It’s this city, Sing. I’m telling you.” She sighs. “If I didn’t have such a great date this weekend, I’d be moving at the end of the lease.”

“So I’m not enough to keep you here, but one hot date and you’re staying?”

“Two dates. We’ve set up another.”

“It must have been some first date to get you to commit to a second last minute.”

“It was.” Her gaze gets all dreamy as she looks to the colorful lights covering the ceiling and smiles. When her eyes land back on me, she says, “I might be in love.”

What? “Wait a minute. Back up. Umm . . . okay, slow down there and let me catch up. Love? Like L-O-V-E love?”

“One in the same.”

As she goes on to tell me how Mike treated her like a princess and boosted her confidence in pursuing her dreams of blogging her way to success, I watch her. I watch how she smiles with sincerity tipping the corner of her lips, her eyes sparkling with excitement, and I hear hope every time she mentions his name. She’s always been pretty, but when she’s happy, the pretty shines from the inside. And if this guy makes her this happy after one date, maybe he’s the one for her.

When she looks at me, her eyebrows go up in surprise. “Are you tearing up?”

I wave her off. “Ignore me.”

“Aww.” She gets up and comes to hug me. “Is it the margarita? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s happy tears. I’m happy for you.”

She smiles as she sits back down. “Thank you. I’m happy, Sing. I feel like I’ve lost so much of myself to this city. It just eats up dreams and spits them out. But you always seem to be able to find the silver lining. I know it was my idea to come here, but it’s your determination that’s kept us here. And now with Mike . . . maybe he’s the one.”

“And selfishly, that means you’ll stay here in the city with me.”

“We make a great team.”

“A dynamic duo.”

“Enough about me,” she announces. “Tell me everything about Mr. Everest.”

Saturday in the park, Sunday at the pub, and I don’t bother leaving out any details because I know she’d harass me for them anyway. I’d do the same to her, so all’s fair in that department.

Her hand is over her mouth, but she still manages to gasp. “Singer, you have to be more than friends. You just have to. He’s given you all the signs that he’s interested. He asked you out and almost kissed you at that party last year.”

The infamous almost kiss still haunts me.

Just as we’re about to share what I feel like is going to be the first of hopefully many kisses to come, a woman pokes her head out the window and tugs on the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him back.

The air whooshes between us as our almost-kiss is interrupted. The model’s icy aura giving me chills. She stares at me seemingly bothered by my presence. She’s not a woman who’s denied anything she wants, and she clearly wants Ethan. Turning to him, she says, “Come back inside. Keith is looking for you. We’re doing shots and the game is almost over.”

. . . “But this year, there wasn’t a kiss or hug. There was barely a touch on my chin. But when it comes to Ethan, I don’t want to get my hopes up.” I liked that touch too much. “I had fun with him. He’s different from most guys I’ve met.” Crunching into a chip, I remember the end of my time with him. “There was no hug goodbye, not even a polite cheek kiss. Why didn’t he touch me or want to make a move? I swear we were flirting at different times, and he complimented me. I could feel our connection, yet he acts differently from what he says.” Hmpf. I rest my chin on my hand. “Oh Mel, I can’t figure him out. He’s an anomaly. He loves sports, but he didn’t ignore me during the game like the guys did in college. We even left early. Yet, I think I’ve been friend-zoned, and you know there’s no coming back from that.”

“Don’t say that. It can happen. You just have to stay in the game.”

I give her the look. She knows the look well. I’ve never been afraid to call someone out on their BS. “You’ve friend-zoned guys before they were given a chance.” To use Ethan’s favorite metaphors to back me up, I say, “They didn’t even get a first pitch. Heck, they never made it to bat, much less first base.”

“Friend-zoned, Schmend-zoned. Look, if you want to go out with him again, do it. Or don’t do it.” She spins her glass around by the base. “It’s your call at the end of the day, and I want you to be happy.”

“Maybe I don’t know him well enough to make the call, but I know when I look at the individual parts of the afternoon they don’t match. He says all the right things, except when he says he won’t practice with me. I can tell he likes me. Ugh. He’s so frustrating.”

“You’re frustrated because you like him.”

“You’ve seen him.”

“I’ve seen him, but it’s different when you speak of him. I can tell there’s more than good looks that attract you to him. I knew that after you told me about the party last year.” One perfectly shaped eyebrow rises in curiosity. “How close were you to kissing him again?”

“You play unfair.”

“No, making you see that just because he says one thing doesn’t mean that’s the end of things.”

“What do you want me to do? Chase him down like a stalker?”

Shrugging, she sips her margarita. “Whatever works for you.” Her hand slaps down on the old wood tabletop. “Let’s use the fictional world you love to live in—books—to prove my point. They’re called friends-to-lovers romances for a reason.”

“This isn’t a fairy tale. If it was, he’d swoop me off my feet and whisk me away to his penthouse, and that isn’t happening.”

“You never know.” She clinks her margarita glass against mine. “Mr. Ethan Everest might just turn out to be your Prince Charming.”

“You’re supposed to be the realist between the two of us.”

“Love can change a girl.”