Yeah, no. Definitely not going with that one.
Instead, my fingers typed out the dumbest, most Lainey-brand thing I could think of:
Want to watch some tow truck drivers with me? Pizza?
Brilliant. Just sheer Shakespeare-level brilliance.
I tossed the phone onto the couch and immediately face-planted into the pillow beside me.
“You’re anidiot,” I screamed into the fabric, the sound muffled but full of despair.
The ding of my phone made my stomach flip.
He was either telling me to get lost or, by some divine miracle, charmed by my awkwardness.
I sat up and grabbed the phone like it might disappear if I didn’t act fast. It had last time…
On my way.
Ope. Guess awkward charmwasstill in style.
My smile tugged wide across my face until I looked down at myself.
Ratty old sleep shorts and an oversized black shirt that used to be my favorite but had somehow developed a hole near the hem. Barefoot. No bra. Hair a mess.
Last time Duane came over, I didn’t even have pants on,butat least I thought I looked cute. That had been wine-induced confidence.
Tonight? I looked like a single mom who had given up the second her daughter didn’t want to hang out with her anymore.
I mean… that wasn’twrong.
But now I had a hot biker on his way over to watch reality TV with me. Talk about a one-eighty.
I bolted off the couch and power-walked to the bedroom. I didn’t have much time, but I couldn’t exactly greet him looking like I’d just finished crying into a bag of tortilla chips.
I stripped out of the shorts and grabbed my favorite cutoffs from the dresser. They were the perfect length—just enough to feel a little sexy without looking like I was trying to relive spring break from 2008.
I pulled them on, then turned to my closet. “And what about the shirt?” I mumbled to myself and yanked hangers to the side.
I was a T-shirt kind of girl. Always had been. But I did own a few nicer tops—ones I rarely wore unless I was going to somethingfancy, like a PTO meeting or jury duty.
I dug to the back of the closet and pulled out the tiny section of “non-T-shirts.” Four contenders.
The first was a white button-down. Too formal. Tooteacher conference.
The second was a silky, flutter-sleeve top that might’ve worked… if I wasn’t wearing cutoffs. It gave “I work in HR” and “Please don’t wear flip-flops to the office.” Immediate no.
“Maybe theshortsare the problem,” I said and held the flutter-sleeve shirt up in front of the mirror.
I shook my head. The shorts were staying. They made me feel good. The shirts would just have to catch up.
That left me with two tanks—one black and flowy, the other yellow and tight-fitting.
I looked at both.
“Black tank top it is.” Tight-fitting was not at all in my vocabulary tonight.
I yanked my oversized tee off and pulled the black tank over my head, adjusting the straps. It was soft and hit right at my hips, just enough shape without clinging to every single curve.
