Chapter 20
GLITTER IS MY LOVE LANGUAGE
RORIE
I’m exactly three bites into a questionable bodega croissant and halfway through a client call that’s circling the drain when my phone pings with a text.
Carl.
Annoyed with myself for not deleting him. I sigh, glance at the screen expecting an apology or a meme, but what I get instead—
Holy. Shit.
A photo.
Of a man-sized white t-shirt stretched across what I can only assume is his kitchen table. It’s covered in glitter, surprisingly good handwriting, and what appears to be a decent attempt at bedazzling.
In the middle, like some neon-lit declaration of shame, it reads:
SORRY FOR BEING A DICK!
TEXT ME FOR FURTHER APOLOGIES
(555) 977-1529
I choke on a crumb. My client asks if I’m okay. And then I swipe to the next photo.
The back.
I’M SORRY TEXTUALLY FRUSTRATED!
I AM SEEKING REDEMPTION!
PLEASE DON’T BLOCK ME!
I stop breathing.
Not out of horror.
Out of pure, awe-struck disbelief that this man not only created this masterpiece but sent it to me. Sober, presumably.
I stare at the phone. Then the wall. Then the phone again.
This cannot be real.
This is either:
A) The dumbest apology I’ve ever received.
B) The best apology I’ve ever received.
C) A textbook case of glitter manipulation… and unfortunately, it’s working.
My fingers move.
You made a glitter shirt?
A statement piece, actually.
Is this… punishment? Or performance art?
Yes.
And the phone number? Really?
If I must suffer, I want strangers to witness it.
I laugh. Out loud. Loudly.
It’s too much. It’s absolutely too much.
And exactly enough.
Okay. Fine. You get points for commitment. And rhinestones.
But I’m still mad at you.
I expect nothing less.
I might be slightly less mad than I was before the glitter.
So... am I forgiven?
No. You’re on parole.
Do I get visitation hours? Possible conjugal visits?
Don’t push your luck, Picasso.
Understood. But so we’re clear—I would have worn it in Central Park. Alone. With snacks.
Carl…
Yes?
If you ever wear that shirt in public… I’m gonna need proof.
Challenge accepted.
You are insufferable. Effective. But insufferable.
I”ll try again. Forgiven?
Apology accepted. Pending further review.
Tough crowd.
So what was the reason for your dickness the other day?
Something at work. My boss threatened my job.
I was pissed. Came in hot and took it out on the wrong person. That’s on me.
I stare at the screen for a second too long. The honesty is unexpected. And kind of disarming.
That sucks. But thanks for the truth. And the apology. I respect it.
Easier to be honest when I can’t see you judging me.
Who says I’m judging? Maybe I’m impressed.
You’re flirting.
Don’t flatter yourself, Carl. You still owe me for the emotional whiplash.
I’ll add it to the glitter debt. Speaking of which—What’s the big news you were dying to tell me before I acted like a complete dick?
I chew on my bottom lip, debating how much to share. I don’t know why I care what he thinks. But I do. But I also want to keep our mystery thing in tact.
Let’s just say…
A career-making opportunity landed in my lap. It’s huge. Terrifying. The kind of thing that either launches you or buries you.
So basically: high stakes. Just how you like it.
How would YOU know how I like it?
A hunch. You’ve got that edge.
You don’t know me.
Don’t need to. I know your type. Probably talks back in meetings.
…accurate.
You like the pressure. You chase the win.
P.S. It’s my favorite type
And what type is that exactly?
Girls who scare me a little.
Like the girl who hates you?
Exactly like the girl who hates me.
Any updates on that?
I don’t kiss and tell, TF.