Chapter 1: The Text Mishap
Erin’s fingers hovered over her phone’s keyboard, the little blinking cursor almost taunting her with how much effort she was putting into this text for Josh. After ten minutes of backspacing and rewording, she finally crafted what she thought was a perfectly casual yet enticing message: “You’re free for lunch? Heard this place has a killer skyline view and tacos to die for.”
Triumphant, she hit send with a satisfied grin. For one glorious, fleeting moment, she felt a small victory—a perfect invitation sent without overthinking. She set her phone down, grabbed her coffee, and leaned back in her chair.
Then her phone buzzed.
She picked it up, expecting a snarky reply from Josh like, “I don’t do tacos before 2 PM, peasant.” Instead, the name on the notification hit her like a thunderclap.
Joan Delacroix.
Erin’s stomach dropped. Her coffee hovered mid-air, forgotten, as she stared at the screen in horror. Her brain scrambled to comprehend how, how, her message—meant for Josh—had landed in the inbox of Joan Freaking Delacroix.
Joan Delacroix. The Joan Delacroix. The poised, impossibly elegant AI researcher with her perfect posture, sharp wit, and the ability to make even the driest academic conferences sound like TED Talks. Joan, who Erin had once partnered with during university—a partnership that had consisted mostly of Erin mumbling through her contributions while Joan carried the project on her flawlessly tailored shoulders. Joan, who Erin secretly admired in the way one admires a rare, exquisite painting: from a respectful, safe distance.
Her brain screamed at her to DO SOMETHING. Delete the message? No, too late. Block her? Overdramatic. Pretend she was abducted by aliens and could never text again? …Maybe.
As these thoughts raced through her mind, her phone buzzed again. This time, the message shattered her last shred of hope.
“Sounds good. When?”
When. Not Why did you text me? Not I think you sent this to the wrong person. Just a breezy, composed, When?
Erin audibly squeaked, a sound somewhere between a panicked mouse and a malfunctioning fax machine. “No, no, no, no!” she muttered, pacing the small space of her apartment. Her cat, Pickles, lifted his head from his perch on the couch, blinking at her with mild disinterest before going back to sleep.
She clutched her phone like it was a live grenade, her heart hammering in her chest. The logical part of her brain whispered, Just tell her it was a mistake. A simple, polite ‘Sorry, that wasn’t meant for you.’ But the louder, panicked part screamed, You can’t! That’s Joan Delacroix! She probably thinks you’re cool and mysterious now! If you backpedal, you’ll just look like an idiot!
Her hands trembled as she typed out a draft reply:
“Hi Joan, so sorry, that was meant for someone else! My bad!”
She deleted it immediately. Too abrupt. She tried again:
“Hey Joan, funny story, this was actually a mistake, so no need to—”
Deleted. Too awkward.
After five more failed drafts and two laps around her apartment, she finally slumped against the wall, staring at the message Joan had sent. “Sounds good. When?”
What if… she just went with it?
Erin felt a small, traitorous flutter in her chest at the idea. It wasn’t like she’d actually die if she had lunch with Joan. It was just lunch. Sure, lunch with Joan felt like lunch with Beyoncé, but… maybe, just maybe, this was the universe throwing her a curveball. A terrifying, high-stakes curveball, but a curveball nonetheless.
Before she could talk herself out of it, her fingers moved on their own.
“How about tomorrow? Noon?”
She hit send.
And then immediately screamed into her couch cushion.
Her phone buzzed again a moment later. Erin peeked at the screen, her heart in her throat.
“Perfect. See you then.”
Perfect?! PERFECT?! Joan thought this was perfect?
Erin slid to the floor, her face burning as she replayed the events of the last ten minutes. Her brain was already spiraling into worst-case scenarios. What if Joan expected her to talk about work? Or research? Or literally anything remotely intelligent? What if Erin spilled something? What if—
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was Josh:
“Yo, lunch tomorrow works for me. Tacos. Let’s do it.”
Erin stared at the message. Then she screamed into the cushion again.
Pickles stretched lazily, his expression clearly saying: You’re embarrassing both of us.
She had 24 hours to figure out how to survive lunch with Joan Delacroix. No big deal. Absolutely no big deal.
…Right?
