Page 49 of Elevator Pitch

He glances at me only briefly before darting his eyes toward the door, no doubt eager to flee from the awkward exchange of words and the desperation in that kiss.

Or should I say devastation?

Because that moment turned out to be the kiss of death.

The Anchors lost their game later that day.

+ + +

“I don’t know what I was thinking, Cee-Cee,” I explain to my best friend on the phone four days after the kiss.

“About which part?” She chuckles good-naturedly as I’ve just told her everything.

“The experiment. The kiss. Coming to Arizona. Take your pick.”

“Why would going to Arizona be an issue?”

I sigh, tipping back my head as I sit on the couch, another blank page on my laptop resting on the ottoman. “Because I’m not getting any words in like I’d hoped.”

“But inspiration did strike while you were at the ballpark, right?”

I nod although she can’t see me.

“Maybe you need to go to another game.”

“And look like I’m chasing after Ross Davis? No way, Cee-Cee.” While my best friend has that kind of confidence, I do not.

In the dating game, there is a three-day code.

Day one, a call looks too eager.

Day two, too calculated.

Day three, make contact.

But I’m on the morning of day four with only minimal texts.

Team meeting tonight.

Coaches’ dinner, I forgot about.

Late call with the front office.

Those dating rules are a suggested holding pattern after a first date. What are the rules after a first kiss? What does day four signify? The obvious. He isn’t going to call. He isn’t coming over. No more kissing and no more sleeping arrangement.

I don’t know whether to feel grateful or depressed.

Instead, I’m pissed. Ross kissed me first, much like he came to my hotel room, and he came to me with his hairbrained scheme. Of which, the Anchors have flowed in a pattern of loss-win-win.

I feel used and tossed aside, like people who leave their half-eaten snacks behind at a stadium game. Am I simply an unfinished hot pretzel? Screw that. And screw Ross. No one leaves a hot pretzel unfinished, and Ross needs to man up and finish us. I deserve a phone call, or at least a full sentence text with an explanation, not this emptiness after a kiss that changed my life.

How am I supposed to kiss someone else after that kind of kiss? I might never eat a hot pretzel again at this point, and the idea of that is just disappointing.

“Look, you went there to write,” Cassandra interjects, her tone sharpening in a way I recognize. She’s about to get real with me. Picture a woman in riding boots, tugging them hastily on in preparation to get dirty and take charge of a situation.

“I know, but—”

“Aunt Sassy is imparting wisdom, so you need to listen.”