Marcie

The following Tuesday, I breathe out slowly and stare at my open closet door. My clothes stare back at me, no more helpful than the last twelve times I’ve looked at them. My phone vibrates, and I dive for it instead.

Is it too lame to say I’m really looking forward to this?

I clutch the phone to my chest and try not to squeal. I feel like a kid, but my mystery man—it feels too weird to call him Gwendivere in my head, even though I already know I’ll probably never change his name in my contacts—has been texting me all week, and my stomach fills with butterflies...