Just My Type(8)

We spend the rest of the car ride to school coming up with names for the dog I’m caving on more and more each day, none of which have anything to do with the male anatomy, thankfully. It’s not until I’ve dropped my car off at home and headed back out on foot for my Monday morning ritual that I start worrying about problem number two.

“Jesus, just read the email, Ember. What’s the worst it could say?” I mutter to myself as I lock up my front door and walk down the porch to the sidewalk, my cell phone practically burning a hole in my back pocket with that unread email waiting for me.

I called the client Shit Mouth. I accused him of not having any balls. And steroid use, just because he owns a gym. He’s going to rip me a new asshole.

“It’s not like this was my fault. He never should have seen my notes. I did nothing wrong,” I mutter to myself again as I reach into my back pocket and pull my phone out when I get to the end of my front walkway and turn right.

You did so much wrong. He’s going to murder you. He has your email address now. He could hire himself a hacker and find out where you live. I really need to stop watching Dateline.

Before I can give myself any more time to freak out, I quickly open the email as I walk and hold my breath, wondering if he’ll just call me a bitch, or go right for the kill and whip out the old C U Next Tuesday. Honestly, for a guy who owns a gym and “looks like he works out,” he better bring the big guns, or I will have lost all faith in ’roid rage.

Dammit, Ember! That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.

My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and I come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk when I read the email. And read it again. And one more time, just to make sure I’m not seeing things.

To: Ember Hastings

From: [email protected]

Subject: Shit Mouth Transcription

She twirls her hair around her finger every fucking time she laughs.

I said purple, clear as day. Get the shit out your ear.

My balls are where they always are. Slung over my shoulder, because they’re too big to carry. (GIGGLES)

I have never, nor will I ever, use steroids. Drugs are bad. Needles are scary. Shut up. Big, manly men can have fears too, GOD.

She is definitely not a professional interviewer. Does Dan Rather drop his pen every fifteen minutes so he can bend over and show people his cleavage? More importantly, does Dan Rather have cleavage?

But seriously, DO I sound like I have shit in my mouth? I feel like you’re lying.

Not Necessarily Shit Mouth, a.k.a. Baker





CHAPTER 3





Fucking Karen


“Brooklyn told me to reply to him when I called her freaking out on the walk here. Actually, her exact words were, ‘Christ, just email him back already. He probably can’t wipe his own ass on account of his giant gym muscles, but he’s got a sense of humor and he’s single.’ I don’t know. Should I reply? Corporate told us not to reply, but what could it hurt? His email was kind of funny. And I mean, I could ask him some of my own questions and get a feel for what he’s even doing this interview for. It would be like job research.

“Also, what kind of a name is Baker? Maybe it’s his last name. Maybe he’s one of those cool guys who just goes by his last name. Or, he’s a serial killer. Do serial killers have a sense of humor? I feel like Ted Bundy probably had a few jokes in his day. I just really need some advice and Brooklyn is no help; you know that. I love her, but she just wants me to get laid. I mean, I don’t even know where this guy lives. He could be emailing me from a prison cell. This interview could be about why he killed two of his wives, and what his last meal will be on death row. Why would she think I’d sleep with a guy I don’t know, just because he didn’t chew me out over email? Like, ‘Hey, since you didn’t call me a twat, we should sleep together! You get conjugal visits, right?’ On top of that, he knows my full name. That can’t be good. I dropped my ex’s last name and the stupid hyphen, and just use my maiden name now. He knows my maiden name, but I guess he doesn’t know it’s my maiden name. Unless he already stalked me online and opened five credit cards in my name. Maybe I should just forward the email to corporate and not reply. I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

I finally take a breath after unloading everything, waiting expectantly for someone to finally tell me what to do.

“So, just a grande caramel macchiato with extra caramel then?” the Starbucks barista replies with wide eyes.

“Um, yep. Yep, that’s it.” I nod sheepishly before moving to the end of the counter to wait for my drink.

If you’re going to ask someone how their day is going when you take their coffee order, maybe you should be better prepared for the answer, KAREN.

It’s days like these I really miss living in White Timber. As soon as I would have walked through the door of the White Timber Diner, Sheila would have taken one look at my face, kicked someone out of my favorite back corner booth, sat down with me regardless of how many customers were waiting for coffee, and listened to me ramble while also giving great advice.

I’ve been coming to this Starbucks that is within walking distance of my home every Monday morning after I drop Lincoln off at school since I moved in. It’s the one thing I do to splurge on myself and make me feel like I have my shit together—drinking a caramel macchiato in a corner booth with all the other people pretending they have their shit together. Karen has been waiting on me every Monday. I thought we had a thing going, Karen and me.