Burn the Script (Runaway Hearts)

1. Miguel

MIGUEL

NOW

“You’re not into this, are you?”

My date’s deep, rumbling voice breaks my concentration on his hair.

The familiar shade of sandy brown is the reason I clicked his profile on the dating app, but everything else about him fails to hold my interest. With big blue eyes and a bearded face, he looks nothing like my ideal man.

I prefer a guy with a sultry amber gaze, a clean-shaven jaw, and a lazy, arrogant smile.

The sugar cookie with red and green icing sits untouched as I align my fork with the edge of the plate. “Sorry, Paul. I’ve never been good at the whole dating thing.”

“It’s Preston.”

Amusement teases my lips, an odd feeling after a year of drowning in misery. “I’ve never been good with names either.”

His boisterous laugh draws several looks our way.

I glance at the Christmas tree in the corner, a decent hiding spot, and calculate the distance from my seat.

The café near my apartment is one of my usual haunts, and while I enjoy being the center of attention among friends in intimate settings, the public spotlight shines too bright for me.

Presley dabs his ruddy, wet cheeks with a sleeve. My comment wasn’t that funny, but he seems like a jolly guy who’s easily amused. From the moment we sat down, he’s given me nothing but smiles. I wish I could do the same.

“What else are you bad at?” he asks. “Since we’re past trying to impress each other, we could make this an anti-date and lay out our flaws.”

I scoff at his preposterous assumption. “My list would be short. But if I had to pick something, it would be the obsession I once had with crime documentaries.”

“How is watching documentaries a flaw?”

“According to my cousin, they’re to blame for my occasional bouts of paranoia,” I say, eyeing the muffin crumbs on his red plaid shirt. Someone should give me a medal for not pointing out the mess he’s made. I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap. “What about you? Why are you single?”

In the ten minutes since we arrived, I’ve made no effort to know him. Right off the bat, he mentioned his job in the tech field and something about a dog, but my thoughts drifted elsewhere. Par for the course these days.

A crease settles between his thick eyebrows as he stares into his mug. “I guess I’m one of those self-deprecating types. People accuse me of fishing for compliments, and maybe they’re right. Being dumped several times in a row sort of killed my confidence.”

“That sucks.” Deep down, I feel empathy, but consoling others with words has never been one of my strengths.

He shrugs his meaty shoulders. “I wish I could pinpoint what I’m doing wrong. No one has been brave enough to tell me.” Defeat rings through his humorless chuckle. “At least they don’t string me along.”

The boyfriend I had back in college explained all my faults in explicit detail.

He could’ve made his point with a simple “Hey, you’re a lot to deal with,” instead of giving a rehearsed speech with the sole purpose of destroying my self-esteem.

Of course, I have no intention of sharing my past with a stranger I met online, but I’m willing to help Philip get to the root of his problems.

Lifting a hand to the side of my mouth, I whisper, “Do you snore too loud or have a small penis? Be honest. You’ll never see me again.”

“Um…neither.” Crimson floods his cheeks.

He looks around the café and leans forward, lowering his voice.

“I’m blessed in the front but not in the trunk.

And I think my height intimidates people.

There’s also my small bladder. Speaking of, if you’ll excuse me…

” The chair scrapes on the tile when he shoves it back and dashes to the bathroom.

None of his perceived flaws sound like dealbreakers to me. Plenty of guys would climb Pippen like a tree, so there must be something else at play. Maybe he’s one of those people who acts friendly until his true, sinister nature appears.

What if he’s a serial killer?

I won’t be sticking around to find out. The smart thing to do in this situation would be to bail while he’s indisposed, but I’m not a complete asshole. I’ll wait for Peter to return from his potty break before cutting this failure of a date short. It’s not like I wanted to be here.

There’s a hippie dancing to folk music in my living room. As Carmen Espinoza sways from side to side, her long dark hair and ankle-length dress flow with the movement. After an early date followed by a busy day revising floor plans for a new apartment building, I’m not in the mood for her company.

She’s the one who created my dating profile, impersonating me while chatting up single men in the area. I found out about it when she downloaded the app on my phone and insisted I meet a match for coffee. Look how that turned out.

I hang my leather messenger bag on a hook and shrug off my green blazer. “Did you miss your stop on the second floor?”

“I ordered dinner for us. It’s on the way,” she says. The food is an excuse for my cousin to show up and stick her button nose in my business.

Sighing, I gather her platform heels from the rug and deposit them on the shelf with my suede loafers.

For much of our lives, Carmen and I have been attached at the hip.

We grew up on the same street and lived together from the start of college until I moved out a few years ago.

I’m three months older, but we’re often mistaken for twins because we have the same last name, similar round faces, and tawny complexions with rosy undertones.

Mis pequenos tomates, our abuela would call us when our cheeks turned red from exertion or embarrassment.

When we were young, our parents dressed us in matching outfits for yearbook and family photos, which I secretly enjoyed. In some pictures, the resemblance is so striking, only my sharper nose and deep dimples set us apart.

Our similarities end with our looks, however, because our personalities couldn’t be more different. While I’ve been called uptight and aloof, Carmen is hailed as a free spirit. She’s also messy, pushy, and irresponsible with her money, and I love her to death.

“How was your date this morning?” she asks. When I shoot her a withering look, she stomps a foot. “You’re not even trying, Miguel.”

“I went, didn’t I?”

Dropping onto the chaise end of the cream chenille sofa, I kick my feet up.

My tiny, one-bedroom apartment has an open concept with a combined kitchen, living, and dining area where I set up my laptop when I work from home.

Moving back to the Silver Lake neighborhood, near downtown Los Angeles, seemed like the best decision after my breakup last January.

Carmen begged me to be her roommate again, but I needed to live on my own for the first time. We settled on being neighbors instead.

She shuts off the music on her phone. Her hair is so long, she has to gather it over a shoulder before sitting next to me, tucked in a ball with her toes touching my thigh. Few people have a free cuddle pass, and she’s one of them.

“Was the date really that bad?”

“I’m alive, and I’d like to keep it that way.” My head lolls to the side, and I meet her concerned gaze. “I’m deleting the app.”

“Please don’t. It can’t hurt to browse, right? You could find a cute distraction, someone to keep your mind off things.”

“I’m not built for casual dating. Never have been. I’m not made for relationships or hookups either.”

More importantly, I’m not interested in any of those things, a fact I’ve reiterated to her many times.

“No one is saying you have to jump into a relationship or hook up with anyone. The app can help you meet people and make new friends. Get out of your apartment and embrace the unexpected.”

I flick a dismissive hand. “Pass. The last time I got adventurous, it didn’t end well. I’m happy with my comfortable existence as a bachelor.”

Carmen and I have gone round and round about my future.

She thinks thirty-four is too young to abandon the quest for love and become a lonely, old curmudgeon.

I disagree. After holding the perfect man in my grasp for years, I learned that even profound love couldn’t conquer the mental baggage I bring to a relationship. For both our sakes, I walked away.

“Your comfort zone can become a prison if you never leave it.” She gives my arm a rough shake. “Take more risks, Miguel.”

“I take risks.”

“Some, but you run scared as soon as you get close to earning the rewards.” As I open my mouth to argue, she cuts me off. “You know I’m right.”

I tug at the knot in my bow tie, breathing easier once it loosens.

During my attempts to revive a lost fashion trend, the bow tie became my trademark accessory.

Modernized versions of kilts and lederhosen failed to gain traction on social media, but with the little scrap of fabric hanging from my neck, I’ve found success.

Every week, I risk my pride when posting a video of my sewing skills for three-hundred followers to admire.

I look at my sewing table in the corner with longing. If Carmen weren’t here, I’d skip dinner and lose myself in stitch therapy and dreams of the future I abandoned.

She knows me well enough to read my thoughts and nudges me with her foot. “Call him.”

“No.”

“Then talk about him. You’ll never get over him if you can’t even say his name.”

“No,” I repeat, gritting my teeth. I’ve banned all discussion about my ex, but she enjoys breaking my rules.

A knock on the door saves me from a second undesirable conversation today.

She smacks a noisy kiss on my cheek and bounds toward the food delivery, her carefree demeanor front and center once again.

Meanwhile, I bury my fingers in my eye sockets to fend off regret and the last memory I have of Graham Kingston.

It’s been almost a year since I ended our relationship and blocked all means of communication.

He was temptation personified, and a clean break prevented me from racing to his house and begging for forgiveness.

My no-contact approach has been harder in practice than in theory.

Four years is a long time to invest in someone only to sever ties abruptly.

Most days, I’m convinced I made the right choice. Graham would’ve ended things first once he realized he’d fallen in love with a total mess. Most days, I know I’m lying to myself.