Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
There’s a lull as the waitress drops off our check and two more waters. I wait until she’s gone.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I always have been a little headstrong.”
My friend laughs, eyebrows raised.
“A little? A lot.”
“Okay, a lot,” i concede. “But it can be good!”
Tara nods in agreement. “Absolutely, and May December relationships can work too, so it’s not like this is so off the wall. You remember my cousin Marcie, right?”
I nod. Marcie is a family legend—moved to California, married a guy twice her age, lives in a yurt or maybe a Tesla, nobody can keep track.
“She married her professor,” Tara says. “He was sixty. She was, like, twenty-four. My aunt had a full-on breakdown. But you know what? They’re still together. They have two kids, and she looks happier than any of us.”
I blink. “Are you serious?”
She grins, pulling out her phone. “Look. Christmas card, two years ago.” She swipes to a photo: Marcie in a red dress, hair in wild curls, grinning at the camera while her husband stands beside her, one hand on her waist and the other cradling a toddler. He looks older because the man must be almost seventy now. But he also looks kind, and totally besotted with his wife.
“See?” Tara says. “Love doesn’t care about math.”
I stare at the photo, not quite able to process it. “So you’re saying I should marry Jack and have his babies?”
Tara shoots me a silly smile. “No, you know that’s not what I’m saying. It’s too soon for that! But I am saying that age is nothing but a number, and if you really feel it with this man, then by all means go for it. Just don’t get pregnant by accident.”
I laugh, heart fluttering in my chest. “You’re insane. I’m not going to get pregnant!”
“You don’t know that,” she shoots back. “We’re young, Eliza, and in our fertile years. Plus, it only takes one drop, and you’ve been getting gallons recently.”
At that naughty joke, we both crack up, but then Tara gets practical. “Okay, ground rules. If you’re going to date your dad’s BFF, you have to be smart. Don’t do PDA. Don’t tell your mom. And for the love of god, don’t act all moony around him.”
I nod.
“I’ll try not to.”
She goes on, ticking off points on her fingers. “Meet in public, but not too public. He can’t pick you up at the house. Use Signal or Telegram, not regular texts.”
“Are you joking?” I demand. “We’re not selling drugs, girlfriend. It’s just dating.”
Tara grins. “Well, I’m just saying if your parents find your phone, everyone knows how to accesss your text app. Meanwhile, most Boomers have never even heard of Signal or Telegram.”
I shake my head.
“OMG, I’m in a detective movie. Or a John Le Carre spy novel.”
With that, we both burst into giggles and the conversation loops back and forth a few more times between practicalities and fantasy. Tara offers to be my emergency contact (“If it goes bad, I’ll bail you out or, failing that, torch his car”). I agree to keep her in the loop, and to tell her everything that happens between me and Jack.
When the check arrives, Tara snatches it before I can reach. “My treat,” she says, “as long as you spill all the deets later.”
I roll my eyes, but let her pay.
As we stand to leave, Tara pulls me into a quick, tight hug. “I mean it,” she says, voice soft. “Whatever happens, I’m on your side. I’ll never judge.”
I squeeze her back, and for a moment, I almost cry. It’s stupid, but having someone in my corner feels like armor.
We step out into the bright, blinding street, arms linked, two girls who know exactly what they want and are determined to get it.
Before we part, Tara lifts her sunglass, winks, and says: “To Eliza’s generous, romantic spirit. May you never take no for an answer.”
We hug again, and for the first time all week, I feel like maybe—just maybe—everything is going to work out.
When I get home, my parents are making lasagna, which means the house will reek of garlic and scorched cheese until Tuesday. I sneak past the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room, like a lab rat avoiding the bad end of a psychology experiment. The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I exhale. I have exactly thirty minutes to do my side hustle and get ready for my real date, and I don’t plan to waste a second.
I don’t really feel like camming, to be honest, but that’s the thing. My work is content-driven, and that means that I have to put out a steady stream of new material all the time. So even if I have only twenty minutes to spare, I’m always filming, editing, or chatting with customers on line. Today is no different. I haven’t put out anything in a few days now, and my customers are growing impatient.