5. Mia
CHAPTER FIVE
MIA
At the ass crack of dawn, Monday morning in Seattle is doomy and gloomy with rain battering my front window. I’m hunched over my kitchen counter, counting the seconds until my coffee hits optimal, tongue-scorching temperature.
I’m not quite functioning yet. I have work in forty minutes and a catastrophic case of bed hair that needs my attention.
I take a long, scalding sip, savoring the caffeine jolt when my phone buzzes on the counter.
I turn it over expecting a message from Katie or Harper but I’m shocked to see Mick’s name flash on the screen.
Mr. Hockey God
Hey trouble. Surviving Monday or is Monday surviving you?
I laugh to myself and take another sip of coffee before I type out my reply.
Me
Surviving. Barely. Mondays suck.
The phone buzzes again. I glance. This time it’s a meme that says, “If Monday was a haircut, it’d be a mullet.” I snort into my mug, coffee spattering my hand.
Me
I can picture you with a mullet.
Mr. Hockey God
Ouch. You wake up cranky on Monday.
Me
I wake up cranky every day of the week.
Mr. Hockey God
We’ll have to work on changing that. I bet I can find a way or two to make mornings better for you.
I don’t even have a reply. So I toss my phone on the counter and head off to work on my bedhead.
Tuesday morning is crazy in the ER, but there’s a moment at 10:40 a.m. when the trauma bay is calm, and I’m in the back break room, inhaling a blueberry bagel when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
My heart pounds hard as I take it out hoping it’s a message from Mick.
Mr. Hockey God
How’s your day going?
Me
I’m surviving. How’s your day?
Mr. Hockey God
It sucks. I’m missing you.
A piece of bagel sticks in my throat and I have to take a big sip of diet coke to get it to go down as another message comes in.
This text is a picture of him with a mullet. I choke and end up spraying diet coke all over the pile of work schedules sitting on the edge of the break room table. Once I’m able to breathe without coughing, I send him another message.
Me
New haircut?
Mr. Hockey God
Yep, thought I’d look good for our date Friday.
I know he’s joking. It’s easy to see the image has been photoshopped but I can’t help myself from responding.
Me
I like it. It matches your bone structure.
Mr. Hockey God
Glad you approve. Have a good day, trouble girl.
Me
You, too.
Wednesday at 11:30 p.m. My home smells like citrus cleaner and exhaustion.
After working three days in a row, I came home exhausted but wired.
I decided to scrub my small apartment from top to bottom so I don’t have to do it tomorrow on my day off.
Then I took a much-needed hotter than Hades shower.
Now, I’m slumped on the couch wearing my favorite snoopy pjs.
I’ve got a heating pad tucked behind my back and the remote poised for a Netflix binge.
I check my phone then tell myself it’s okay if he doesn’t text every day.
I scroll through the hockey scores and see the Knights got badly tonight. Ouch.
My show is starting on the screen when my phone buzzes. Relief flows through me when I see his name pop up on the screen.
Mr. Hockey God
How was your day?
Me
I survived. I’m not going to ask how yours was. I saw the score.
Mr. Hockey God
It sucked monkey balls.
I send him a meme of a monkey with a tennis ball in his mouth. A few moments later he texts back
Mr. Hockey God
I can’t wait until Friday.
Me
Me too.
Mr. Hockey God
What kind of movies do you like?
The sudden change in topic makes my head spin.
Me
Why?
Mr. Hockey God
Because I want to plan for our date.
Me
70’s and 80’s slasher movies are my favorite followed closely by modern low budget horror movies.
Mr. Hockey God
I knew you were perfect.
Me
Don’t tell me you like horror movies.
Mr. Hockey God
I love a good slasher flick.
Me
Good to know.
Mr. Hockey God
Goodnight, trouble girl.
Me
Night, hockey boy.
Thursday night, I can’t resist the urge to watch the hockey game. The announcers keep talking about Mick’s “veteran presence,” his “leadership on and off the ice,” all the things that make him a hockey golden boy.
I find myself leaning forward when he takes a hit, my body tensing, like I could absorb some of the impact through the screen. I only exhale when he’s up and moving, and when the Knights score, I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half groan.
As the game ends, I’m scrolling Instagram when the phone vibrates against my thigh.
Mr. Hockey God
My games are over. I can’t wait until tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at six pm.
I stare at the screen for a moment. Even though things are going great with Mick, I always leave myself a way out. What can I say? Old habits die hard.
Me
I’ll drive myself. Send over your address.
Mr. Hockey God
I’m not even going to argue. I know it’s a wasted effort.
Me
You catch on quickly. See you at six.
Mr. Hockey God
Can’t wait. Dress casual.
Me
Do jeans and sweatshirt work?
Mr. Hockey God
Jeans and sweatshirt or nothing at all. Either works for me.
I laugh as another message comes through. This time it’s his address and I’m not surprised to see he lives in a fancy apartment building in downtown Seattle.
Friday afternoon, I pace my apartment trying to work off some of the excess energy flowing through me. Darn it. It’s been the longest day in the history of long days.
I finally decide to take a long, scalding hot shower. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t do this, I take extra time buffing and scrubbing and even shave my legs.
Then I dry off and pull my wet hair up in towel before adding a thick layer of moisturizer.
Next, I yank on my best jeans and a pale blue sweatshirt that’s so soft, it’s basically emotional support clothing.
I pull the towel off my head and stare at my reflection.
My hair looks like I spent the night wrestling a tornado.
Ouch. I brush it out and spend the next twenty minutes blow-drying it.
Once it’s mostly dry, I twist it into a high ponytail and let the curls riot however they want.
At five thirty, I’m sliding behind the wheel of my little blue compact, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I pull out my phone, punch in his address, and the maps app immediately starts giving me directions in the crisp, male British voice I chose.
Seattle’s outside, wet and sullen, but there’s nothing gloomy about the fizzing energy in my veins. My pulse is straight-up out of control.
I crank the heat, crank my music, and head out.