Authors: Stacey Wiedower
Erin gaped at her. "Is that really what you think of me?"
Sherri smiled and pushed a strand of newly highlighted hair, damp from the early summer heat, off her face. "I think you know what you want and you're afraid to admit it," she said, the look on her face challenging Erin to disagree. "I think all of this love stuff is a lot more serious for you than you've been letting on." She paused again. "In fact, I know it is."
"Oh, really?" Erin said dryly. Then she noticed what was sitting between her and Sherri on the bed—a CD with "The Horse Men" on the cover. The jacket photo showed four guys in Texan-ized hipster getups leaning against a brick wall, all looking in different directions, and two of them were incredibly familiar. "Is that Travis and Alex's band?" she asked, reaching for the plastic case.
"Yes!" Sherri answered, and Erin smiled inwardly at the subject change. "That's the other thing I was coming here to tell you. Alex called me! I can't believe he really did! I ordered their CD because I remembered him saying something in France about how artists don't make as much money when people listen to their music online. I just played a couple songs in the car, and they're really awesome. You should check it out. I listened to some other bands today too, and it turns out I like alt-country or Americana or indie or whatever you call it way better than I thought I did. I want to listen to this over and over so I can talk to Alex about it next time he calls. Hey, has Travis tried to call you? Alex said he thought he had."
Her voice trailed off as Erin's phone started to buzz on her dresser a few feet away. Sherri started laughing and jumped up to get it. "Would that not be hilarious if it's…oh."
Her voice grew flatter and she dumped the phone on the bed beside Erin. "It's just Hilary."
Erin sighed as she looked down at the letters flashing across the screen. Things had been pretty cold between her and Hil lately, ever since Hilary had learned not only about Erin's Paris plans—and how they didn't include her—but also the big news Erin had been keeping from her about the blog. Of course it didn't matter that the whole blog thing had arisen from Erin's shock over walking in on Hilary with Jeffrey. No, Erin was the bad guy here. Always had been, always would be.
She let the call go to voicemail.
* * *
Three days later, Erin perched on the back patio of her apartment with her computer on her lap to reply to more of the thousand-plus comments she'd received on her blog post about Noah. Her number of unique visitors had enough zeroes in it to make her head spin, and her subscriber count had climbed past 9,000 and was still rising. She'd made a point in the last couple of days to post entries that had nothing to do with Noah and Amelia, but no matter. Even without them she was gaining readers with astounding, maybe even alarming, speed.
An airplane buzzed low overhead, and her eyes drifted up to follow the white path it carved through the cloudless blue sky. The air was cool for a late July day in Dallas—only eighty-nine, as opposed to the endless string of triple-digit days the city had endured for the past, oh, twenty-nine summers or so. A dry breeze ruffled Erin's hair and tickled the back of her neck. She wriggled in her chair, trying to get comfortable, and then she stood and dragged a metal chair across the patio and placed it in front of the cushioned iron settee where she'd been sitting. Propping her legs on the makeshift ottoman, she pulled her computer onto her lap and got down to business.
She was finding it much harder to concentrate on her to-do list now that the list was shorter than usual. Even in the summers, she was typically in and out of the school for meetings, summer school classes, and tutoring sessions. Erin made a mental note to call Dr. McCann when she was feeling brave enough, to find out if she'd have a job this fall. She wasn't at all certain she would. Sure, she hadn't blogged about any more co-workers, but she imagined Dr. McCann and the other administrators knew she was still blogging, and they probably didn't like it.
She pulled up her website and typed about five versions of a reply to the most-asked question about Noah (Had he cheated on her?) before deciding she might as well write a follow-up post to try to help clear his good name. He hadn't, in fact, cheated on her, unless one considered reading a form of cheating.
Hmmm? Could reading Amelia's books while dating me be considered cheating?
She'd never thought of it that way before. She decided no. She wrote about their breakup—how she'd told Noah he needed to seek out Amelia, who he was obviously still in love with, before Amelia married someone else and he was too late. After all, how often did second chances come around in life?
Maybe I really am a romantic.
She stared at the stucco ceiling of the patio overhang for a few seconds while she pondered Sherri's accusation.
Nope.
Just a pragmatist. Why sit around and moon over something you'd lost when you were perfectly capable of working to get it back? She was proud of Noah. She was proud of herself for being strong enough to send him packing in the first place.
Once she'd clicked "submit," Erin reached into her laptop bag for her journal. She was filling her No. 11 requirement of writing in it every day, but she was still nervous about her ability to complete all thirty goals. She flipped the book open to the page that contained her list. So far she'd put a line through nine items.
Not bad. Almost a third of the list in less than three months!
Unfortunately, apart from Paris she'd been picking off the easy stuff. Plus she was only at nine if she counted No. 22, "call parents more." She felt guilty scratching off that item—yes, she was talking to her mom more often than she had in recent years, but if anything, her mom and dad knew less about her life than usual. They knew about the Paris trip but not the blog. And she couldn't bring herself to tell them about her limbo status at work.
All right, Crawford. Go big or go home.
She needed dates, she needed adventure, she needed something interesting to write about to keep the attention of all these new gawkers and stalkers who were latching on to 30 First Dates like flies to forbidden fruit.
She took a deep breath, picked up her cell, and dialed the salon where she'd been getting her hair cut since high school. It was time to find out if blondes really did have more fun.
* * *
Erin frowned down at the bill in her hand, poring over every line item for the fifth or fifteenth or fiftieth time. Yes, everything on the bill was correct. She really had spent $7,426 in June.
The Visa bill for Paris had come in. It was amazing, absolutely amazing, how quickly little things added up. Even more quickly when a couple big things were thrown into the mix—of course this was the month her car had blown a tire and she'd run out of contact lenses.
She unconsciously ran a hand through her newly blonde locks as she glanced again at the $287 salon charge. After lightening her hair at least three shades and then painting on several layers of highlights, Mia, Erin's stylist, had convinced her she needed to have her eyebrows lightened to match.
Straightening up from her slouched position on her bed, Erin craned her neck so she could see her reflection in the mirror above her dresser. Pushing her shoulders back, she turned her head from side to side and stared at the unfamiliar woman gazing back at her. Five days had gone by since she'd visited Mia, and her reflection remained a shock.
Her readers loved it, though. The photo she'd posted on the blog had received the most comments of any entry aside from the ones about Noah.
Ben, now, that was another story. She'd hadn't seen him since "the incident," as he described her hair dyeing experience, but he'd seen the picture on her website, and he hadn't seemed happy about it. At that thought, the doorbell rang and she jumped, shoving the bill underneath her pillow. Ben was here—he'd called and asked her to hang out with him tonight. Mainly to gawk at her new 'do, she figured. She stopped in front of the mirror again before she went to open the door, and then shrugged. It was only hair, and it was
her
hair, at that. Who cared what Ben thought?
The swarm of butterflies in her stomach belied her flippancy.
When she swung open the door, Ben stood outside on the front step for a few long seconds, just staring. Then he walked past her, and as Erin closed the door he circled her, studying her from all sides. He stepped back.
"I like it," he finally said, his lips pursed as if he, himself, was surprised at the pronouncement.
Erin raised her eyebrows. "Really? I'm not sure I can say the same."
He continued staring at her as if he'd just come upon someone he hadn't seen in years. "No, I really do. It's…sexy.
Erin's mouth dropped open a little bit, and her stomach fluttered again. She felt off balance, as if her world had tilted a little on its axis.
Ben
was calling her sexy? As far as she knew Ben saw her as sexless. She'd always felt like one of the guys in his presence.
Her mind reeled back through years of memories to the one moment when their friendship had made her feel confused, like she did right now. It had happened the summer after their freshman year of college, riding home from a party late at night after consuming who knew how much alcohol. Eight people were piled into one friend's Sentra, and Erin was squished onto Ben's lap in the backseat. They were stopped at a red light, music blaring and everybody around them laughing and yelling. Drowsy from alcohol and the heat of the bodies packed into the car, Erin was nestled against Ben's chest, the top of her head tucked under his chin. She remembered feeling hyper-aware of him in a way she never had before—and that awareness resurfaced now, sending tingles down her spine that radiated throughout her body. Softly, so softly she'd convinced herself later that she'd imagined it, his lips had moved against her hair, trailing tiny kisses along the crown of her head.
Now, all these years later, she could feel it as if it had just happened. Her ears grew hot, and she looked away from his scrutinizing stare, as if he could somehow read her thoughts.
Self-consciously, she reached up with her right hand and scrunched some of her golden blonde locks between her fingers. Mia had done a nice job—if someone had never met her they probably wouldn't guess it was a dye job. But still. She'd been bracing for criticism from Ben, or at least mild sarcasm.
"Well. Thanks," she said, a little breathless. She took a step backward and spun around and then began walking and chattering over her shoulder. "I still need to finish getting ready. Where do you want to go?" She turned to face him again and gestured down to her jeans, white tee, and cowgirl boots. "Is this outfit okay, or do you have some nice romantic evening planned? Since I'm so sexy and all." She half-smiled, joking away the awkwardness of the moment.
He looked discomfited and she immediately felt guilty for making fun of him. Then she forced herself to get over it. This was Ben! Since when could she not joke with Ben? He wasn't usually this sensitive.
"How about Mercy's?" he asked, recovering himself.
Mercy Wine Bar
was
kind of sexy, Erin thought. She glanced down at her outfit again. "Sure, that's cool. I haven't been there in a long time. Just give me a few minutes."
She snagged the remote from the coffee table and placed it in his hand before walking back to her bedroom and closing the door. She leaned back against it for a few seconds, trying to process what had just happened. Finally she decided she was reading too much into the situation. He liked her hair, that was all—hardly a romantic declaration.
She hoped not, at least. Ben was her favorite person in the world, and the last thing she wanted was to screw up their friendship with the gloom and doom that was her love life.
She put on a black jersey knit dress with her boots and then took an extra minute to apply mascara and lip gloss. She grabbed her bag from the closet doorknob and walked toward the living room, where she could hear the muffled noise of a sporting event on TV.
Tennis
, she thought, noting the
ping, ping
of racket hitting ball as she rounded the corner from the hallway.
When he saw her, Ben let out a low whistle, and Erin blushed. For a split second she saw him again in a different light. Then she shrugged off the thought and gestured toward the door.
* * *
"So how's the dating experiment going?" Ben dipped his head as he asked the question, staring into his beer as if trying to read her answer in the foam.
Erin cocked her head to one side. "Like you don't know."
Everybody, in fact, seemed to know how her dating experiment was going. In the past few weeks she hadn't been able to leave the house without somebody stopping her to mention the blog. She wasn't sure how the word was getting out, but her subscriber count had jumped by a couple hundred more in just the past few days. Her inbox was full of emails from would-be advertisers looking to hawk their products in her posts, none of which seemed legit, and she had a message from a college newspaper reporter who was writing a feature story on building a career in blogging. She wasn't sure that was what she was doing, so she'd left the email unanswered for now until she could come up with a polite way to decline.
She'd also begun receiving comments on her blog from people offering to match her up with their friends, brothers, cousins, and a couple from people—male and female—offering to go out with her themselves. Though she was careful who she responded to, she was grateful for the offers. They were a timely fix for her recent dry spell.
"I'm planning my cocktail party," Erin said, changing the subject. "It's number 10 on the list. I'm thinking it'll be around the middle of August—right before school starts back, when everybody's in the mood for a last hurrah. I mean, my teacher friends," she added sheepishly. "Sometimes I forget that everybody doesn't get summers off. Anyway, mark August 16th off on your calendar, and find a date. This will be the real deal."