“It’s a terrible idea. We both know that.”
“It is, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Honestly, I was pretty upset at them for not showing up and I’m gladyou’re at least doing something about it. Friends and family are wonderful and I know how close you are with yours, but I don’t think they appreciate you the way you deserve. It’ll be a hard lesson to learn, but they’re gonna learn it.”
“All the best lessons are hard.”
“Wow, who taught you that?”
“I don’t know, some lady with impeccable style said it to me one time and it stuck.”
“She sounds very wise.”
“She is.”
“She also has a bunch of dissertation panels to prepare for, so shoo.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
“Good luck, you’re going to be great.”
But even as she shuts Miranda’s door behind her, the gnawing doubt starts to creep in, twisting her stomach into knots, her breath catching and releasing in her lungs as her heart rate ticks up.
The nerves. They’re back.
Trying to ignore the way her stomach is apparently trying to eat itself, she makes her way to her office, a large room shared by most of the doctoral students in her program. Her desk is by the window with a decent view – perks of being in her final year, grass and trees and blue skies almost every day, thanks to the gift that is Southern California weather.
There are a few things she wants to pack away, but most of it is just junk that’s accumulated in the last five years, things that seemed important at the time, but now are really just taking up space. That’s another day’s problem though – right now she needs to get the area behind her clear so it won’t look cluttered in the background of her call. Once that’s done, she opens the blinds of the window behind her to get some decent lighting so she can do her makeup. Light foundation, just so she doesn’twash out on camera, neutral eyeshadow, a little bit of eyeliner and a nude lipstick, hair straightened into a dark curtain at her shoulders.
Her stomach though? Still twisting itself into a Gordian knot. She checks her phone. Still another fifteen minutes until the interview.
She needs a distraction. Maybe she could start cleaning off her desk? She glances around for a garbage can, but then her phone buzzes in her back pocket and then again.
It’s him.
—I was thinking about this morning.
—You looked so good I wanted to just pull you right back into bed.
Bianca bites her lip, starting to fight down a grin, but there’s no one around to see it, so she lets it form as she stares down at the screen. So he had been looking as she got ready. She’d almost forgotten about their plan, but there’s something liberating about it, especially now that she’s talked to Miranda and there’s at least one person in her life she’s not lying to.
Okay, it’s time to play.
—Yeah? An extra hour of sleep would have been great.
There’s a pause, but not for long.
—We would not have been sleeping.
—Well, if we’re not sleeping, then . . . what would you have done with me?
—I would start at your neck, that spot where that one curl always falls out when you put your hair up.
She reaches up and brushes her fingertips against the spot. She tries to focus, wracking her brain for a response. The only stupid thing she can come up with is something about them not kissing because of morning breath, but first, gross, and second, that’s what she would say as Bianca, friend and colleague. Whatwould Bianca the fiancée say back? Bianca the fiancée would know what that feels like. She’d like it, obviously. Who wouldn’t?
—I love when you do that.
Yeah, that’s good. Simple, to the point, and it would be nice to feel his mouth against her neck, open and hot and . . . her phone buzzes again.
—And then I’d make a path, from there down to your collarbone, to that little freckle just below it.
