Well Played (Well Met #2)(9)

I pulled my mug over and took a long sip of my coffee. I barely felt the heat of it, as everything had gone numb. I didn’t move, I didn’t even want to blink. All I could do was read the message I’d sent my yearly hookup, well into last night’s wine-drunk.


Hey!


This is Stacey Lindholm. Well, obviously you can tell that since my name is right here. Do you even know my last name? Well, you do now. That’s kind of why I’m writing. Not about my name, who cares about that. But I realized that I don’t know you. I mean of course I know you, I’ve known you for a few years now, right? And I guess I know more about you than you do about me, since you just now learned my last name and I already know yours.

So let’s start with the basics.

What makes you laugh?

How do you take your coffee?

Do you like cats?

Do you miss me?

I should delete that last one. But I’m gonna let it stay up there. Because with merlot you tell the truth.

So here’s the truth. I miss you. I know I shouldn’t, I know I have no real reason to. But I’m already looking forward to seeing you again next year, and that’s eleven months away. I’m not expecting you to do anything with this information, other than just know it. Know that I miss you, and I wish we had more than those few weekends a year to spend together.

I hope you have a great run at the Maryland Ren Fest, and the rest of the season. You travel so much, don’t you? Do you like traveling that much? See, something else I’d like to know about you.


Take care,

Stacey



I groaned and leaned back against the cushions. This was pretty bad, but after all that wine it could have been so much worse. I thought about sending another message. Maybe I could apologize for Past Stacey. For Drunk Stacey. But no. That would just compound the awkwardness. Instead I closed my laptop and finished my coffee. Nothing I could do now but wait for him to respond.

Of course, it didn’t occur to me until the next day that he might not respond at all.

Between Saturday morning and getting ready for brunch with Emily and April on Sunday, I checked my phone roughly a hundred times. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d sent that first regrettable message, and he hadn’t answered. Relief mingled with disappointment, and I couldn’t decide which emotion was stronger. No response meant not having to own up to my drunken words, and I was all for not being held accountable for my actions. But no response also meant that he wasn’t interested, which, let’s face it, sucked.

I sighed a long sigh, tied back my hair, and put on some pink lip gloss. This wasn’t that big a heartbreak, after all. Nothing a little brunch couldn’t cure.



* * *



? ? ?

I adored brunch. It was relaxing, a meal meant to be eaten over a good hour or two, savoring drinks and coffee and carbs in all forms. But brunch with Emily Parker was something else entirely. She had a paper planner already stuffed with printouts and brochures, and her tablet was on her Pinterest page of wedding dresses, which we flicked through while we waited for our waffles and eggs.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get married in costume?” April shook a sugar packet into her coffee before stirring in the cream. “You’d look so cool as a pirate’s bride.”

Emily shook her head, not looking up from her tablet. “Simon vetoed that pretty much immediately.”

“Too bad.” April sighed dramatically. “Because that would have made Stacey and me your . . .” Her voice quavered, and when I looked over at her, she was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “. . . your bridesmateys.” She barely got the word out before she sputtered into a laugh, and my own giggle burst out before I could check it.

Emily snorted a laugh of her own but shook her head. “You’re the worst,” she said around a grin. “Now, can we look at these dresses, please?”

“You’ve been engaged for like a week,” I said, wonderingly. “How did you do all this?”

“I work fast.” Emily flicked through her tablet before passing it to her older sister, April. “This one!”

April frowned at it. “You’re too short for that.”

I took a sip of coffee to cover my laugh, and Emily tsked at her sister. “I am not! Show Stacey; she’ll back me up.”

April passed me the tablet, and it was my turn to frown at the picture. It was a relatively traditional wedding gown, but April was right. The model in the photo was easily half a foot taller than Emily, if not more. Lots of lace, a train, and puffy sleeves . . . Em would be lost in a dress like that.

“Sorry, Em. I have to go with April on this one.” Thankfully the waiter arrived with our mimosas to soften the blow, and I tipped mine to April in acknowledgment. “I mean it. It’s very pretty, but you’ll look like you’re drowning in your grandma’s linen closet if you wear that. You want . . .” I could imagine perfectly the kind of dress she should wear, but none of her choices matched the vision in my head. I set down my drink to head down a Pinterest rabbit hole, tapping and swiping and tapping again until I found a good approximation. “Something like this.” I passed the tablet back to her. She peered at my choice, April leaning over her shoulder, and I chewed on my bottom lip and tried to read their faces.

Emily’s face hardened at first, and my heart sank. But then she tilted her head, and the more she looked at the picture, the more her face softened. “You think? It doesn’t look too . . . I dunno, casual?”