Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)
Author: Randall, Andrea

“You sure? I mean, after what happened the other night you don’t want us to come get you?” She tilted her head to the side.

 

“Monica, it didn’t happen to me, remember? Besides, I have my car and I’ll meet you there at nine. You can’t imagine how much I’m looking forward to it.”

 

“I guess you’re right. See you at nine.” She turned and headed out of my office.

 

“See ya!”

 

I still hadn’t shaken off the events from the garage a few nights before; the emotional trauma loitered in my gut days later. Tonight, I declared to myself, I would get over it.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

I took stock of myself in my full-length mirror while I touched up my make-up. Looking good, November. My height of 5’8” seemed to work in my favor; people typically didn’t mistake me for younger than my 26 years, and guys usually didn’t try to mess with me the way they might a 5’1” counterpart. My thick auburn hair fell in soft waves to just below my shoulder blades, and my green eyes set in my pale face made people think I’d won the DNA lottery.

 

I rarely struggled with self-esteem issues growing up, save for the acne debacle of freshman year high school. I liked how I looked, so I took good care of myself. I was an athlete in high school, continued working out through college, and maintained a healthy relationship with the local gym.

 

My friends assume my lack of boyfriend means I have some serious issues since clearly, according to them, my looks don’t have anything to do with it. They are the kind of friends that fuss over their looks more than I do, and they insist I don’t have to care what I look like. Why do women do this to themselves? Anyway, my lack of boyfriend didn’t have anything to do with my looks or my personality. It had to do with the men. They’re idiots. Not all of them, of course; just the ones that are single, 25-29 (my preferred age range), and trolling for a meaningful relationship in a bar with Jose, Jack, and Jim as chaperones. Please.

 

Even though my parents raised me with an appreciation for all things love, I’m a realist. I was born on the warmest day of that November in New England, under the bluest sky they’d ever seen. My name, November Blue Harris, exemplifies everything my parents loved about that day. Despite my mother’s encouragement to always love with reckless abandon, I grew up slightly guarded and suspicious. To her, spontaneity was as easy as breathing. To me, it seemed like skydiving without checking to see if you had a backpack or a parachute.

 

Either way, I was going out with my friends for fun. Although, in general, I disagreed with their hopes of finding a future husband and father of their children at a bar, I was supportive in the kind of way that every girlfriend needs to be. I learned to do this in college.

 

I worked hard to get in to Princeton University and remained focused on my studies so as not to blow my parents money. Monica and I found each other there. We were the same major, and had most classes together. We formed an instant friendship over our comfort in hard work and penchant for sarcasm. I had my fun, but I just wanted to get through school in one piece and find a job. I really didn’t have an interest in a boyfriend. Not after Adrian anyway. Adrian and I dated for a year, but it was purely physical and when I wanted more he backed off. That was that. Well, that wasn’t really all there was. I loved him. It was the first time I had truly felt like this was love. I shook thoughts of Adrian out of my head as I flipped my hair and checked the time.

 

“Shit, 8:55!” I yelled at my clock. I jammed my feet into a pair of not-too-tall heels and ran out the door.

 

Finnegan’s, the Irish Pub, is only about a five minute drive from my apartment, which allowed me to show up at 9:00 on the dot. I liked Finnegan’s; they often have live music, and the bartenders know me by name. In the four years that Barnstable had been our home, Finnegan’s served our drinks.

 

I’m from Connecticut - for all intents and purposes - and Monica is from Rhode Island. We both wanted to move to Cape Cod, Massachusetts so we found a non-profit agency on the Cape that helped at-risk teens and families, and set our sights there. I got a job as a grant writer for the agency, and she secured one as a community educator; we agreed to have separate apartments so we wouldn’t get sick of each other.

 

Finnegan’s is the kind of place that has a hometown feel, appealing to both locals and tourists. It’s always busy on Fridays; I had to use a little extra muscle to make my way past the people drinking out on the patio and find my friends who would be waiting for me at the bar.

 

“HEY! EEEMMMBEERR! Miss November!” Monica screeched like an idiot. Her milk chocolate hair was twisted in to a cute up-do.