- Oaklyn -

"I think he might have deactivated his account," Sailor interrupted, but I was too engrossed in Bridgerton to care. If she thought the sound of her voice could pull me away from Anthony Bridgerton plunging into the lake, she was sorely mistaken.

Sailor craned her neck. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of her giving me a scathing death stare despite the illuminated screen. "Oaklyn," she called.

I hushed her. "Shut up, you're missing the best part."

Mid-scene, the television paused. I sighed deeply. Sailor had risen from the middle of my bed, invading my personal space, and she wondered why my younger brother had a crush on her since forever. It's because they are practically spirit animals—meddling and all.

Personal space? Privacy? Nope, none of that is clearly found in Sailor's vocabulary.

I shifted my checklist to prop my elbow on the cold vanity surface. Sailor scoffed, indifferent to the show we were binge-watching. "Who cares? If I had a nickel for every time we've watched this scene, we'd be golfing with Bill Gates."

"All right, all right," I relented. "Spit it out."

"Boston."

"What about him?"

The phone turns a full ninety degrees and I am faced with search bar history. There were hundreds of other Bostons, Youngs, and so forth. But there was no Boston Young in the field of Journalism. Automatically, I freaked out a little. Not only did Boston ghost the dating site, but he'd left a void where his digital footprint should be.

I tried not to jump to conclusions, but deep down, I wondered if I was the reason for his sudden disappearance after our brief flirtation.

I would be flattered if I wasn't so worried about telling Sailor what could be the reason. I've dragged this secret for a whole week, and it was time to wash off my hands and come clean.

Sailor flopped back onto the thick comforter and shut off her phone. "Am I not capable of finding love?"

"Sailor, don't be so hard on yourself. You'll find someone."

"At this rate, I won't," she muttered, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek. "I'm going to end up sad and alone like you."

Ouch. That one stung, especially coming from my best friend.

Is this what my life has come to? Did anyone believe I was truly happy being young and single?

Brushing off the insult, I began to plead my case. "First of all, I'm never alone because as long as we are both single, all we have are each other. And secondly, I want to be single. You know this."

"Lately, it's been really hard to believe."

My mom, my dad, my brother, and even the receptionist believed that after my shift, I would indulge in eating a pint of cookie dough ice cream and the saltiest popcorn known to mankind while I binge-watched romantic movies for three days straight. They imagined me secretly crying over scenes, wishing I could be one of those girls who falls in love with a handsome millionaire or a sexy mafia boss from Sicily.

Truth is, I do have those fantasies.

However, I have come to accept the harsh truth that these types of love stories only happen in movies, and my reality isn't like that.

In the library of my personal experiences, there are no love stories—only the horror stories of my biggest hits and misses.

I redirected my eyes to the frozen screen. If Boston did delete his account, maybe it was for the best. There's no way in hell that I'm engaging in anything with that man after seeing Sailor mope like this. This conversation is now officially a cold case.

Instead of giving a valid answer, I stand to my feet and grab the remote. "Believe what you want. I don't care anymore. Please go back over there so we can continue to watch Bridgerton," I beg.

Out of pocket, she tugs the slim remote back into her possession. I sigh as I see it shoved in the pockets of her sweatpants. I wasn't even going to retrieve that.

"We've seen both seasons three times for goodness sake," Sailor argues. "My precious diamond, who needs Bridgerton when we can have a true gentleman court us this season?" The last sentence adopted a posh British accent that was both amusing and slightly ridiculous.

Easy answer: me.

Shirtless men are my absolute weakness.

I laughed lightly in response to Sailor's humor, following along. "Ah, you make a valid point, my dear Sailor.

I went on.

"But if we are going to venture this season, we must remember that I, too, possess the tendencies of a rake."

Sailor's smile dropped. The facade barrier of her British accent disappeared to its original.

"You're hopeless."

"What did I do?" I ask, shocked.

"This," she wavers her hands around the area. I can tell that she is very hurt by this Boston guy. "I'm being rejected and you are so nonchalant about it."

Frankly, I don't want to tell Sailor about my flirtatious confrontation in Boston. For one, it looks extremely bad on my part. The whole plan was never to do Sailor dirty. Initially, I was hoping Boston would have taken the time to get back to her. And if he had abandoned the app completely I still wasn't going to call him back, scouts honor.

We have a girl's code and I always follow the rules and regulations.

I sat up in my chair and changed my tone. If I was going to rip the bandage off, I was going to do it as quickly as possible. "Sailor, please, listen. Don't freak out when I tell you this."

I halted.

"But there's something I've been keeping from you." My voice is slightly shaky.

Why was I so nervous?

Sailor bobbed her head fervently.

"That night at Mediterranean Breeze," I started. My words flowed out in a rush. "The order got mixed up somehow, and I ended up grabbing someone else's food. It was all so strange because deep down, I had this gut feeling that something was off. And then, I found a salad with no dressing. And you know how I feel about my dressing, Sailor."

"Of course. Who knew anyone could be so depressed over not having any sweet and sour sauce for their nuggets?"

The core memory of what took place months ago when I home-delivered and paid double the price just to receive a ten-count of dry nuggets, cold fries, and no dipping sauce. I was in bed for the entire next day. Not even kidding.

"Right, that's my point." I continue to ramble. "Dressing is kind of the star of the meal."

Sailor tiredly signals me to hurry up. "Girl, just cut to the chase."

After a momentary pause, I forged ahead with the story.

Here goes nothing.

"So, there I was, having a heated debate with one of the employees when out of nowhere, a gorgeous bloke showed up with my actual order," I blurted out, still catching my breath from the rapid explanation.

I stopped, allowing Sailor to let my jumbled narrative sink in. As a medical graduate student, she has a knack for problem-solving, and I could see her brain working to connect the dots.

"And?" she prodded eagerly, biting down on her lower lip.

Taking a deep breath, I dropped the bombshell.

"That guy . . . was Boston."

"What did he say?" she blurted out.

"I'm not going to go into detail but I think whatever he was saying translates into flirting." I tucked my hair behind my ear. "I think he's kinda into me."

Sailor jumped up and down like she used to do when we were five. "Oh, my god. This is amazing news!"

"So, you're not upset about not telling you?"

"Hell no," she linked onto my arm. "I think we should make this plan B."

My dirty mind got the best of me. A jovial smirk yanked at my lips as I shot back, "Oh, trust me, Sailor, I have a feeling I might need an actual Plan B after spending the night with this guy."

Our laughs contagiously echoed in the bedroom. Then, I remembered the card Boston 'accidentally' thrown in my bag. I ambled to the other end of the room and scrambled to the bottom to pull out the small piece of paper.

"Here's his business card."

I handed it over to Sailor. "How'd you get this?" she questions.

"He left it at the bottom of my bag."

All I received was a hum in response.

Suddenly, her phone was in her hands and I knew I was cooked.

This isn't what I thought she meant when she said Plan B.

"Sailor," I repeated over. "Give me the phone."

She darted to the left, then quickly pivoted to the right. Up and down she bounced on the bed, her movements a blur in the confined space. In due course, she froze, her ears percolated up as she listened intently. I held my breath, every muscle tense, fingers crossed tightly, hoping he wouldn't answer the call.

"Dang it." She clenched her teeth and brought the phone away from her ear.

"What?"

"It went straight to voicemail."

𓆉 𓆉 𓆉

"This would look adorable on you," I commented, viewing a multicolor top that is Sailor's style. She puts the red dress back on the rack and agrees with the knitted sweater.

After finishing the last few episodes of the historical romance, Sailor and I made the rest of our day useful and made an unnecessary shopping trip to the mall. We then right after hit a few boutiques on the strip because, let's face it shopping is a woman's form of healing the soul properly, and the best therapist is a highly
recommended credit card.

She bobbed and said, "It's cute. I'll have to try that on." I throw it over her forearm.

"Where's the fitting rooms?" I ask.

"It's just around the corner in the back of the store." Sailor tilts to the back without fishing away her range of vision on the rack.

I jerked her closer to the direction. "Let's go try these on."

"Just one more." Her feet refused to go further. "You go ahead."

"I think you've had enough spending for today. I'm pretty sure you reached your limit" Before we left, Sailor said that she had a budget of two hundred dollars. After ripping and raming dozens of stores, that budget of hers had to be more than her weekly paycheck.

We raided to the posterior. The boutique was not the cleanest at the moment. There were large piles of clothes outside the space. Mix-matched heels were disgruntled in bins on the floor. And the fitting rooms looked like a mini tornado invaded the path.

"This store definitely needs to go under new management," Sailor noted and I nodded. "Anyway, you go first. I'll wait out here."

Sailor takes a seat. I tread into the stall and slip off my top garments. I'm halfway unbuttoning my flannel when I hear Sailor's phone chime. Not a few seconds later, she's banging on the door like a madman. The loose metal locks clattered rhythmically, while the stall's plastic and phenolic panels jabbed against the foundation. With the way she's acting, I'm starting to imagine that this must be like to be raided by the police.

"Oaklyn, unlock the door," she voiced

I derided. "I'm in the middle of changing."

"I don't care. Let me in."

The second I turn the lock, she barges in and I quickly cover my prized assets with my shirt. "What is it? Don't you see I'm changing?"

See, this privacy situation, she thinks it doesn't apply to her.

"Hi, "She keeps the phone airtight to her ear.  "Who is this again?"

There's a stiff silence in the room and it makes it barely impossible for me to stand back and listen. My shirt is hanging by a thread and I couldn't care less about it thanks to my pending irritability towards Sailor.

I then remembered that we had left a voicemail on his work phone and had dumbly used Sailor's phone to do it. Now I trust that he wouldn't get in trouble for our unprofessional tomfoolery as fully grown women.

Fleetly, I adjusted my flannel, covering up my coconuts while mouthing, "Is that Boston?"

Sailor glances over her shoulder back at me. "Oh, Ms. Miller? She's, um, a bit preoccupied right now."

That's when I finally to action and eliminated the device from her possession.

"Hey," —I gasped, too short of breath— "hi, Boston. This is Oaklyn speaking."

On the other line, Boston's husky voice booms as so as the newfound heart palpations. "Oaklyn, It's so good to hear that voice of yours. How are you?"

"Good. I'm just glad that you picked up. We had called earlier but it went straight to voicemail." I tighten my grip around the phone.

"We?"

Oh, God. He thinks we're a bunch of weirdos.

"Sorry for the confusion; this is my friend's phone. I should've thought about that before we left that message," I said.

"No, no, it's all on me. I decided to give my desk a break for a few hours."

I crooned. "I'm just really glad that you called back. I thought you were playing hard to get."

"Hard to get? Never with you, Oaklyn. I couldn't stop thinking about you." I blushed at his words. "Besides are you ready for more than just dressing, I see?"

Flirting comes naturally to me—a love language—especially with him. His mention of our first meeting's inside joke has me hooked, unable to shake the chokehold image of his outfit from that night. The thought of seeing him shirtless crosses my mind immediately.

But I had no choice but to run around and sidestep his dirty joke. I had to come up with a clever response.

"Maybe. Are you willing to pay?"

The sound of his car starting up plays distantly on the opposite end of the call. I figured he had just either gotten off of work or had just returned from an important business-related conference.

"For you, Oaklyn? I'd pay any price."

I grinned at Sailor who was glued to me. I keep a cool demeanor. "Sounds like a plan."

"Great. What time are you free for lunch?" he inquired.

Mentally juggling my packed schedule filled with weddings, flower picking, and venue visits, I struggle to find a slot for his attention. That's a chance he's going to have to take. "It's hard to say. I'm usually free on Wednesdays and Fridays around one."

"I'm tied up Wednesday for an interview. What about Friday?"

"Friday, it is. Save the date." I tried to sound sexy and mysterious, but instead, it came off more cringe-worthy than watching my little brother flirt with women twice his age. Guess that's one thing we have in common.

We exchange numbers. Proper ones. The appropriate kind that wouldn't get him fired. Major journalism outlets like the Miami Bulletin most likely practiced strict communication protocols that applied. It was boldly wild for us to leave that voicemail at such an administrative organization.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Young."

His adorable laugh melts my heart. "I should be the one thanking you," he replies warmly.

Sailor waited by my side, bouncing up and down in that familiar way she did when Jack Campbell asked me out back in freshman year. Even then, she hyped me up, no matter how much of a regret it turned out to be.

We wrap up the call and exchange goodbyes. I oddly enjoyed this chit-chat.

"Enjoy the rest of your day, beautiful." Boston slips out smoothly under his tongue, bringing a smile to my face.