Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(8)
TypeWriterGirl:
Is this a philosophical question? Like what came first, the chicken or the egg? You could have a name picked out for your hypothetical future dog.
As I feared, my typing is slower than usual from being tipsy. My fingers feel too clumsy with my phone, and I keep having to correct mistakes.
TypeWriterGirl:
Wow. That took me a long time to type. My fingers are like sausages tonight.
Remington:
Have you been drinking?
TypeWriterGirl:
Maybe. I had a few glasses of champagne. Or maybe most of a bottle.
Remington:
And did you share that bottle with someone?
I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t. I don’t want him to think I’m pathetic. Or an alcoholic. I debate lying, but he’ll know. I’m terrible at it, and he has some kind of built-in lie detector when it comes to me.
TypeWriterGirl:
Just me.
Remington:
Good. I mean, no more drinking alone. I’m here now.
My heart warms. Even if he’s only online, he’s the best friend I have. He may not know my name, but he knows my heart.
Not for the first time, or even the hundredth, I wonder what he looks like. What color is his hair? How wide is his smile? He could be anyone. He could be an octogenarian, married with ten kids, or a former mobster in the witness protection program.
But even though I know those are all possibilities, I doubt them. It might be wishful thinking, but I believe we’re similar ages and live a similarly lonely life.
TypeWriterGirl:
I’m glad.
Remington:
Just face it, you’re stuck with me.
TypeWriterGirl:
This from the guy who won’t tell me his name.
Remington:
I can’t help it if I’m better at following our rules than you.
TypeWriterGirl:
I suck at them. You know almost every detail of my life. You know my birthday, when I don’t know yours. I even told you where I work. I’m just really bad at being mysterious.
Remington:
Cheer up. You haven’t broken all the rules. I don’t know your name. And you’ve never sent me a dick pic.
TypeWriterGirl:
That’s because I don’t have a dick.
Remington:
Thank God.
TypeWriterGirl:
Maybe I do know more than you think.
Remington:
What do you think you know?
TypeWriterGirl:
Well, it’s all your LA stories. It’s like getting my own personal episode of Entourage typed into my phone. You’ve got to be a personal assistant to someone rich or famous. It explains so much. The travel. The parties. So? Who is he? Or she?
Remington:
Who are you talking about?
TypeWriterGirl:
Don’t play dumb. Who’s your famous boss?
Remington:
Not everyone who lives in LA and goes to parties works in the industry. I’m not telling you anything. I respect the rules even if you don’t.
TypeWriterGirl:
Spoilsport.
I want to keep grilling him. But I know from experience that he’s a vault. The things I learn about him are by accident. Details he lets slip in the stories he tells. I decide to change the subject.
TypeWriterGirl:
So what’d you do tonight?
Remington:
I went to a friend’s party.
TypeWriterGirl:
See! Another party. Were there balloons? A pi?ata?
Remington:
It was at a bar.
TypeWriterGirl:
You’re making my case for me, Mr. Entourage. I bet somewhere swanky with bottle service. Did you drink too much?
Remington:
I had a little too much of everything.
TypeWriterGirl:
Does that include girls?
My text is meant to be playful, but his slowness in responding has me holding my breath. Shit. I love hearing his stories about the crazy things he encounters in LA. But him telling me about hooking up with a girl? Not so much. It’s been months, maybe even a year, since I recall him with someone. But maybe it’s only because I rarely ask.
Remington: