I clear my throat and he turns to look at me. “Sorry again about your shoulder.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I haven’t been on an ice rink in at least a decade. I should have known it wouldn’t end well.” He lets out a grim laugh.
“You don’t take Henry skating?”
He thinks for a second, then frowns. “No, I don’t. Do you think he’d like that?”
“Um…” I hesitate, feeling like I’ve wandered onto fragile terrain.
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Michael rubs at his jaw, his brow pulled low. “Why haven’t I thought of that?”
Whoops. I didn’t mean to make him feel like a crap father. I cringe, glancing away. When I finally look back, Michael is still lost in thought.
“Well, thanks, anyway,” I say. “I really appreciate everything today.”
He gives me a funny look. “What?”
“You know, taking the time out to show me around.”
“This isn’t a public service, Alex,” he says, amusement tugging at his mouth. “I enjoy hanging out with you.”
“Oh.” Pleasure weaves through my chest.
“It’s hard moving to a new place,” he continues with a compassionate smile. “It’s always nice to have a friend show you around, help you feel more comfortable.”
Right. Of course, he just sees me as a friend. I know that. It’s only in my overactive imagination that anything more is happening.
Still, I think, casting my gaze out the window at the passing streets, I’m glad to have him as a friend. If that’s all I’m going to get, then I’ll take it.
20
Being single over the holidays doesn’t have to be depressing! Just follow my five tips to make the festive season spectacular as a single gal.
I pause my typing to lie back on my bed and scratch my head. Five tips to enjoy the holidays being single… I can do this. Although, I’m not sure I even have five tips.
Well, there’s drinking. That’s got to be one, right? I know I’ll be drinking.
I’m not exactly looking forward to the holidays. I’m miles away from my family in a new city, and lusting after a guy I can’t have. I guess I could always write an honest blog post about all that, but who wants to hear me moan? Everyone moans about being single and it’s depressing. I’ve tried to keep the whole theme of my blog positive and upbeat, to focus on the good things about living the single life. I figure if I do that enough, I might actually start to believe it myself.
I also thought that keeping it light and happy might be more likely to get me a guest-spot on one of the sites I’ve been applying to. Not that anyone has gotten back to me. Okay, that’s not true; I got auto-replies from five of them and a brief “thanks but no thanks” from a few more. Given I’ve contacted thirty-six websites, blogs and online magazines, that’s not a brilliant outcome.
My phone buzzes on the bed and when I see Mum’s name on the screen, guilt floods me. I still haven’t spoken to my parents, choosing instead to preserve my sanity. Harriet’s been great, though, sending texts of encouragement and asking how it’s all going. Even though we never spent much time together back home, I’ve been surprised to find I miss her over here.
No, it’s not just her—I miss them all. Maybe it’s knowing Christmas is around the corner and I’ll be away from my family, or maybe it’s just that I’ve gotten the space I needed, but I do kind of want to talk to my folks, to tell them how my writing is going and how much I’m loving the city. I’m sure that once they hear how things are going over here they’ll be supportive and happy for me.
I set my laptop aside and, taking a deep breath, I press the talk button. “Hi, Mum.” There’s silence on the other end, and I pull the phone away to check the call is connected. “Are you there?”
“Oh, hello darling,” Mum says, surprise in her voice. “I didn’t think you were going to answer.”
There’s another wave of guilt and I grimace. “Yes, sorry. I’ve been busy. But I do have time to chat now if you’d like?”
“That would be lovely!”
More guilt.
“So, how are you getting on in The Big Apple?”
“Good,” I say, deciding to focus on the positive and not mention the apartment scam that set me back thousands or the ill-advised crush I’ve developed on my neighbor. “I’ve been writing my blog, which is going well.”
“Your blog?”
I falter. Surely she knows what I’m referring to? I shared the link on Facebook when I started writing it. I’d kind of assumed she would be reading it, but come to think of it she never did mention anything in her emails. “Yes, Mum. I’m writing a blog. I put it on Facebook, didn’t you see?”
“Oh, yes. There was something,” she says vacantly.
I let out a sigh. “Well, anyway, I’ve got over fifty followers now.”
“Oh. That’s… nice.”
I roll my eyes. This is about the level of enthusiasm I should expect from her. Just because I’ve been away for a couple of months working on my writing career doesn’t mean she’s now started to understand it. I instinctively touch the book charm around my neck, thinking of how baffled my parents were by my choice to move over here, to leave “everything” behind back home. “Yes. It is good, Mum.”
There’s a pause, then I hear her rustling about on the other end. “Okay, just a minute,” she says.
“What?”
“I’m at the computer now. I’m going to have a look at your website.”
“It’s a blog. That’s—”
“Oh, wait. Something isn’t working. Hang on.” The phone crashes down and I
