Player(6)

Katherine’s face was stern, her eyes flaming. “Because you happen to be incredible, Valentina Bolivar. And if he can’t see that, then he’s a fucking douchebag and he doesn’t deserve you. A guy like that would be lucky to have a girl like you. And if you like him, then you have to at least try. Of all of us, you are the one who is brave enough, who is confident enough to go after a guy and get him.”

I gave her a look. “To be fair, we are not the bravest bunch. Four glorious wallflowers. Amelia can’t speak to strangers, you scare everyone to death, Rin would rather eat a live snake than speak out of turn, and I am just too extra. It’s like saying I’m the head bunny tamer.”

“Come on, Val,” Rin said on a laugh. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I held up my hand and began ticking things off. “I could faint, I could cry, I could start speaking in tongues. He could say no, he could laugh at me. He could pity me. Should I go on?”

No one spoke. Katherine was still pissed.

“I love you guys for believing in me. I do. But this is just madness. It’d be like, Hey, you should just ask Chris Pratt out. He’s recently on the market.”

“Too soon,” Amelia groaned.

“I’m just saying, he’s not on my market. In fact, I don’t even know if Sam’s on the market at all. He could totally have a girlfriend, and I might make an irreparable ass out of myself for no reason.”

“It’s coffee, Val,” Katherine said flatly. “You’re not asking him to elope.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Rin cut me off.

“I know it’s scary,” she said, her face soft. “But what if he doesn’t say no? Wouldn’t it be worth asking if the answer was yes?”

I took a breath to respond, but this time, Amelia cut me off.

“Like Katherine said, it’s just coffee. Ask him if he’d answer some questions for a blog post.”

“I don’t have a blog,” I said, feeling my resolve crumble at the prospect of him saying yes.

“Well then, tell him it’s for mine,” Amelia volleyed.

“You blog about books,” I shot back.

“He doesn’t know that.”

The temptation of spending a little time alone with him filled me with anticipation and a flurry of nerves—What would I do? What would I say?—but I imagined he’d know exactly how to soothe me. Maybe his charm would bring me down to normal levels, and we could actually have a real conversation. Maybe he’d even be charmed by me, too.

Maybe, in that dream world, I would have a shot with a guy like him.

More likely, my crush would turn me into a stalker, and his would never even start.

But that fantasy played itself out in my head, leading me to tentatively ask them, “Just coffee?”

“Or drinks,” Katherine added. “A little social lubrication never hurt anyone.”

“And it’s not lame of me to ask him out?”

“You’re not really asking him out,” Amelia said. “Not if you use my blog as cover. But maybe you won’t have to do that. Maybe he’ll just say yes, and you won’t need to explain. And anyway, we’re far enough into the millennium that asking a guy out isn’t weird. Feminism for the win!”

“I cannot believe you guys are talking me into this. I haven’t been on a date since college—almost five years ago. Guys don’t ask me out. I don’t date. Even then, I didn’t date. Pizza, bad oral, and lackluster missionary in a dorm room with the lights out doesn’t count.”

“Just ask him,” Rin said. “If he says no, I don’t think he’ll be cruel about it. He’s always so charming that I bet he’d find a smooth way out of it. And then you’ll know for sure it’s a no.”

“You should wear your lipstick,” Amelia said with a smile.

“Oh, I’m definitely not ready to bust out the Heartbreaker. First, he’d know something was up if I came in wearing lipstick the color of a fire truck. And second, I can’t play the trumpet with red lipstick on or I really would look like a clown. Or a hooker. Either way, it wouldn’t get me a coffee date.”

“So, you’re going to do it?” Rin asked.

With a sigh and a smile, I gave up. “I’ll think about it.”

Which we all knew meant I would do it.





3





Genetics





Sam

Notes layered in my mind to the beat of the train as it clacked through the tunnel. The voices of the commuters. The sway of the car. The melody rose in me too quickly to write down. But I tried anyway, scribbling in my notebook resting on my thigh.

I did some of my best composing on the subway. I didn’t know what it was about it—the crunch for time maybe, the riot of senses engaged, the rhythm—but sometimes I’d hop on the train and ride with no destination, just to write, just to feel the rush of creation.

When I looked up, it was just in time to see the 103rd Street station slide into view.

I’d missed my stop.

“Fuck,” I hissed, scrambling to hang on to my notebook as I wound through people.

I barely cleared the doors when they closed, and the train pulled away, whipping the air around me in its exit.