Free The Real Thing by Cassie Mae

IM.
    Maybe if someone sits on me, the baby will just pop right out. Like a zit.
    Cringing at the visual, I type back
Only a few more weeks. Keep him in there. He still needs to cook.
    I flip over to Twitter and follow back my new followers. Mostly other book nerds like me, a few spammers I ignore. My email is next, and most of the messages are from Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, so I delete those. I really should just send them to spam, but I’ve been lazy.
    There’s another message from Scott, and I pull it up, zooming the screen.
    Hey Mia2.
    Thinking of our conversation, and a Demetri Martin joke popped in my head.
    “I was on the street. This guy waved to me, and he came up to me and said, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.’ And I said, ‘I am.’”
    Still can’t get over how I emailed the wrong girl. Even crawling back, I screw it up.
    Maybe I’ll just send a bunch of flowers to every Mia Johnson in the world. I’ll go broke doing it, but it might work.
    Expect roses in a few days ;)
    —Scott
    I laugh, and quickly tap back a short message.
    “Mia2” Think I can find that on a license plate?
    Also, make sure you send out pink roses if you’re trying to apologize ;)
    It doesn’t take long for my phone to buzz with his response, and I round the corner just as I pull it up.
    You know, I actually knew that. Not that I’ve had to send a ton of pink roses out before, but yeah … I work at a floral shop. Because I’m just that manly.
    Hey, you on Facebook? Probably easier to chat that way.
    —Scott
    It’s so much easier to copy and paste from my laptop, but I go back to my Facebook profile and copy the link, and paste it in the reply email. Hitting send, I promise myself that’s the last thing I do on my phone until—
    Bam!
    I stumble backward as the metal pole I just rammed into nose-first wobbles. “Ouch, damn it.” I laugh to myself, rubbing my face. I take a quick glance around. Only a few people noticed my complete lack of attention to anything outside of my phone screen.
    “A girl walks into a bar,” someone jokes as they come out of Caribbean Jack’s. I have to laugh because that was a pretty good one. I pull up my Facebook and type it in as my status update.
    Oh, my hell. I growl as I turn the screen off and shove the cell in my pocket. No more tonight. Just Eric and this party we’re heading to. That’s all that exists.
    I smell barbeque and pineapple as soon as I walk in. It reminds me of my dad for a second, and then my attention is 100 percent on finding my best friend. He never texted me back. Or maybe he has and I haven’t seen it yet. I roll my eyes and pull my phone out
again
, check my message center and duh … I didn’t even send him anything. My brain is so all over the place. Ignoring the three new IM bubbles in the top right corner, I tap the Call button under the adorable picture of Eric I snapped when he was doing pull-ups out on the balcony this morning.
    Weaving through the bar crowd, I press the phone to one ear and plug the other one. It rings and rings and rings. When the beep for the voice mail goes off I laugh and playfully scold him. “Hey, answer your phone.”
    Someone knocks into my shoulder, ramming me sideways into another someone. They both apologize, and I try to laugh off being played like a pool ball as I make my way out to the deck. Eric still won’t answer, and I’m listening to his voice-mail message for the fourth time when I finally spot him sitting by the barbeque pit.
    The sun is almost completely set, but what’s still visible lights up his smile and his “lickable” skin. He brings his beer to his lips and laughs a little before he takes a swig. I’m practically bouncing my way over to him, jamming my cell in my back pocket. It will stay there till I plug it in at home.
    I maneuver around another group of people from the beach, and they make sure I say “Yes” a million times to the party going on along the coast. If everyone