was the sort of woman who’d find a list of uncompleted dreams and take it upon herself to get the job done. I fucking rocked.
“That’s so amazing,” he managed to say, and then to my horror he added, “Do you have the list with you? Can you show it to me?”
“It’s at home,” I replied hurriedly. “And I’m afraid you’d be disappointed to see it. There’s not much crossed off what with her birthday still being months away.” July 12, I remembered from her tombstone. Less than six months left to go. “In fact, if we could not make a big deal out of this, I’d be grateful. I’m nervous enough about it. I’d rather keep things to myself right now, if you don’t mind.”
“I understand.” He nodded. “No problem.”
I made a show of glancing at my watch and then said, “I’d better get going.”
“Sure.”
As I got into my car, he pulled out his wallet and fished through it. He handed me a business card. “Call me if there’s anything I can do to help. Anything at all.”
It occurred to me there was something he could do. “It’d probably be helpful for me to know more about Marissa. I don’t want to bother you too much. Maybe you could send me her old yearbooks or photo albums? Anything that might shed light on what might have motivated her to write the things on the list that she did.”
He agreed without hesitation, and I gave him my business card before driving away, the blood pumping through my veins so wildly that I suspected I must be visibly throbbing.
I was going to do this. I was going to complete the items on Marissa Jones’s list. If I couldn’t make something out of my own life, at least I’d make something out of hers.
For the first time in a long time-since the accident and even before-I felt a surge of an emotion so unfamiliar, it took me the entire drive home to figure out what it was.
Hope.
I felt hope.
WHICH BROUGHT ME to where I was: at a bar, realizing there was no way I was going to kiss this jerk, no matter how bad I wanted to cross something off a list.
“So,” he said, flashing a gleaming white grin as he handed me back my paper (and, may I add, there is such a thing as too much whitening), “what kind of kiss?”
His friend Frank filled him in: “Mouth tongue optional.”
“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll just-“
Before I could finish, his mouth was on mine, his tongue thrust between my lips. It wasn’t awful. My first attempts with Grant Smith back in high school were certainly a whole lot sloppier. But I’d experienced significantly more zing with Grant. This kiss, frankly, left me feeling as if I might as well be paralyzed from the waist down.
As he pulled away, he said a glib, “You’re welcome.”
Oh, please. I wish he’d said it while he was kissing me, because then I could have thrown up in his mouth.
“Unfortunately,” I said, feigning regret, “the list specifically states that I have to do this kissing-you know, be the kisser, not the kissee. I’m afraid this doesn’t qualify. But hey-“ I winked at the guys at the table before turning to go- “I appreciate the effort.”
On my way, I nearly bumped into a busboy. Hmm. He appeared to be about seventeen years old and was conveniently just my height. “Mind indulging me?” I asked. I took hold of his collar to pull him closer and-pausing for a few seconds to give him a chance to run for the hills if he wanted-planted a kiss on his mouth. No tongue, but plenty warm and moist, and-yes!-there was that zing I was talking about.
Then, over the sound of the guys at the table having quite a guffaw about the whole thing, I grabbed Susan. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. After all, I still had plenty more things I needed to cross off the list. And as my grandma used to say, there’s no rest for the wicked.
Chapter 2
20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday
1. Lose 100 pounds
2. Kiss a stranger
3. Change someone’ s life
4. Wear sexy shoes
5. Run a 5K
6.
“That’s so amazing,” he managed to say, and then to my horror he added, “Do you have the list with you? Can you show it to me?”
“It’s at home,” I replied hurriedly. “And I’m afraid you’d be disappointed to see it. There’s not much crossed off what with her birthday still being months away.” July 12, I remembered from her tombstone. Less than six months left to go. “In fact, if we could not make a big deal out of this, I’d be grateful. I’m nervous enough about it. I’d rather keep things to myself right now, if you don’t mind.”
“I understand.” He nodded. “No problem.”
I made a show of glancing at my watch and then said, “I’d better get going.”
“Sure.”
As I got into my car, he pulled out his wallet and fished through it. He handed me a business card. “Call me if there’s anything I can do to help. Anything at all.”
It occurred to me there was something he could do. “It’d probably be helpful for me to know more about Marissa. I don’t want to bother you too much. Maybe you could send me her old yearbooks or photo albums? Anything that might shed light on what might have motivated her to write the things on the list that she did.”
He agreed without hesitation, and I gave him my business card before driving away, the blood pumping through my veins so wildly that I suspected I must be visibly throbbing.
I was going to do this. I was going to complete the items on Marissa Jones’s list. If I couldn’t make something out of my own life, at least I’d make something out of hers.
For the first time in a long time-since the accident and even before-I felt a surge of an emotion so unfamiliar, it took me the entire drive home to figure out what it was.
Hope.
I felt hope.
WHICH BROUGHT ME to where I was: at a bar, realizing there was no way I was going to kiss this jerk, no matter how bad I wanted to cross something off a list.
“So,” he said, flashing a gleaming white grin as he handed me back my paper (and, may I add, there is such a thing as too much whitening), “what kind of kiss?”
His friend Frank filled him in: “Mouth tongue optional.”
“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll just-“
Before I could finish, his mouth was on mine, his tongue thrust between my lips. It wasn’t awful. My first attempts with Grant Smith back in high school were certainly a whole lot sloppier. But I’d experienced significantly more zing with Grant. This kiss, frankly, left me feeling as if I might as well be paralyzed from the waist down.
As he pulled away, he said a glib, “You’re welcome.”
Oh, please. I wish he’d said it while he was kissing me, because then I could have thrown up in his mouth.
“Unfortunately,” I said, feigning regret, “the list specifically states that I have to do this kissing-you know, be the kisser, not the kissee. I’m afraid this doesn’t qualify. But hey-“ I winked at the guys at the table before turning to go- “I appreciate the effort.”
On my way, I nearly bumped into a busboy. Hmm. He appeared to be about seventeen years old and was conveniently just my height. “Mind indulging me?” I asked. I took hold of his collar to pull him closer and-pausing for a few seconds to give him a chance to run for the hills if he wanted-planted a kiss on his mouth. No tongue, but plenty warm and moist, and-yes!-there was that zing I was talking about.
Then, over the sound of the guys at the table having quite a guffaw about the whole thing, I grabbed Susan. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. After all, I still had plenty more things I needed to cross off the list. And as my grandma used to say, there’s no rest for the wicked.
Chapter 2
20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday
1. Lose 100 pounds
2. Kiss a stranger
3. Change someone’ s life
4. Wear sexy shoes
5. Run a 5K
6.
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