Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 86(@200wpm)___ 69(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 86(@200wpm)___ 69(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
“Hey.”
I lift my chin in greeting. “Hey. You get the box upstairs okay?”
“We did. Took us so long to build, it was like assembling it from individual atoms, but we managed it without having to call our dad to come help.”
“Always a victory.” I smile at her and watch as she begins to move toward the mailboxes. “No Larry yet.”
She turns, gaping at me. “What? Is he okay?”
This makes me laugh. “I have no idea. I assume he’s just taking a day off.”
“Does Larry do that?”
I laugh again. She’s funny, pretty, playful . . . I should see if she wants to grab a drink sometime. And then I remember something. “Was that your sister with you?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“Did she call me ‘Lava Lamp’?”
Her eyes fall closed and she groans. “Yes, she did.”
Grinning, I ask, “Why?”
“Because, according to her, you’re hot and mesmerizing.”
My head falls, chin to chest, and I feel my shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Okay, then.”
“Mortifying.”
I step closer, reaching my hand forward to introduce myself, when we’re both distracted by the arrival of the mail carrier.
It is not Larry.
It’s a woman, wearing headphones, snapping gum. She begins unloading the mail hurriedly, shoving it in a very un-Larry-like fashion into each box.
“Where’s Larry?” my pretty neighbor asks.
The mail lady looks up, tugging one headphone away from her ear. “What’s that?”
“Where is Larry?” Pretty Neighbor repeats. “Is he okay?”
“Oh.” A gum snap. “Yeah.” A shrug. “I think he’s just on vacation or something.”
Pretty Neighbor turns to me. “Turns out, you’re right. Larry is allowed to take vacation.”
“Good for Larry. This makes me feel about half a percent better about our government.”
She laughs and her eyes sparkle. They’re a mesmerizing mix of yellow, brown, green. It’s a color I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
“Well, I gotta get back upstairs,” she says, hooking her thumb behind her, toward the elevator.
I give her a tiny tilt of my chin. “Have a good one.”
Email correspondence between Veronica Cochran
Subject: Freedom!
Date: February 6, 2026
Hi Jude,
This feels weirdly sneaky, like I’m breaking a rule, but I like it.
I, too, am single. I’m 28, so according to my grandmother I’m close to being a dried-up old husk of a spinster, but according to my married sister, I’m living the life and should be dating every night of the week. Which, sadly, I don’t do.
I think partly that’s because I worked with a bunch of deeply toxic men at PitchSlapped, and partly because I’m really bad at first dates? Like, I hate them. I hate the small talk cycle and that so many men I meet don’t do sarcasm or banter. It’s often like going on a date with a résumé—always so much sincere humblebragging—and no one gets my sense of humor. Someday I will find my banter king. I know he’s out there.
-V
V,
If your date banter is half as entertaining as your emails, I think you’d be great first date material.
-J
Jude,
Are you asking me out?
-V
Veronica,
Maybe I am?
-J
Jude,
Do I need to answer in the form of a question?
-V
Veronica,
It does sort of feel like you should?
-J
Jude,
Okay then in that case I’d love to go out with you sometime?
-V
Veronica,
How does a week from today, 2/13, sound?
-J
Jude,
It sounds like you’ve got yourself a date.
-V
Veronica,
You broke the question chain.
-J
Jude,
I’m so sorry?
-V
P.S. Perhaps texting would be easier than this? My number is 312-555-0166?
Chapter Seven
Veronica
So, wait. You’re going on a date with this guy you trolled on Zoom and who hired you to troll him officially?” Jordan glances at me before throwing a handful of peanuts in their mouth, speaking around them. “Like, you’re dating your boss?”
I frown. “I don’t think he’s technically my boss? We’re colleagues. I’m a contractor.” Jordan looks dubious, so I wave this off, saying, “Whatever. I don’t think the normal workplace rules apply here.”
Clara nods because she approves of even the most inappropriate dating situations. She once suggested I ask my dentist out the next time he had his hands in my mouth. Another time she took Dani to get a picture with Mall Santa, and later insisted he was hot beneath the fake beard, and I should go back and hit him up.
“But you’ve never seen his actual face?” Jordan asks.
“Nope. We just email. It feels very early 2000s. I’m picturing Tom Hanks.”
“You haven’t stalked his socials?” Clara asks.
“They’re private.”
“So request?” Jordan’s tone is the same one they use with their mother when she forgets how to text a photo from her iPhone. “Is this your first life?”
“He has thirty-four followers on Instagram,” I say, “and to me that says he only connects with very close friends and family. We went from snark to hard-nosed negotiations to professional talk to flirting. It feels weird to request now, like he’ll know I’m literally only there to see what he looks like.”
“What if he’s ugly?” Jordan asks.