Something More Than This Read Online Free Page A

down the hallway.
    Muffled, I hear her say, “Ditto. Have a good day at work.”
    After I’ve gathered all my essentials and put them in my messenger bag, I check myself in the mirror one last time. I’ve never been one to get all decked out for work and tend to wear clothes that are practical, much to Mimi’s disgust. Same can be said about my hair and makeup. My long, wavy brown hair starts out each day cascading down my back, but by the time I reach the newsroom, it’s up in a hair clip with flyaway strands escaping all day long. And as far as makeup, I don’t really wear any other than the occasional lip gloss, if you can call ChapStick that.
    Today, I’m dressed in a pair of dark wash jeans, a white silk blouse with black polka dots, a black blazer, and black ballet flats. But as soon as I’m in the comfort of my own home, it’s sweatpants, tank tops, or T-shirts so old they should have been thrown out years ago.
    I’m comfortable in my own skin, as dismaying as it is to other people—Mimi—who wonder why I never get dolled up. A part of me believes in order to be taken seriously I need to look it. However, there is another part of me that wishes I didn’t have to waste time even thinking or worrying about my appearance.
    When I arrive at the newsroom a half hour or so later, my hair is in its rightful hair clip and I pick up where I left off last night after I got home from the restaurant. Over the next few hours, I research the stats on the visiting high school team and compare them to the Barracudas. Since it’s Thursday and there’s no practice for either team because it’s opening week, I’m able to lose myself in my work. I don’t know if it’s the numbers or the science of taking all the stats and poring over them carefully, but I could easily spend an entire day doing exactly this.
    My desk is on the far end of the newsroom, so it’s simple for me to block everyone and everything out. When a light knock on the corner of my desk starts out of the blue, I pop my head up in surprise to find my brother Jonathan smiling at me.
    “I called your cell a couple of times but you weren’t picking up.”
    After scanning the desk for my cell, I remember that I never took it out of my bag. Rummaging through it, I find that my cell has three missed calls, two from Jonathan and one from an unknown number, and a text from Dylan that reads:
     
In 1973, which player became the first punter ever drafted in the first round, 23rd overall to the Raiders?
     
    I quickly text back:
     
Ray Guy
     
    “So what’s up?” I ask Jonathan, placing the phone on my desk, knowing without a doubt that my answer is correct.
    He unbuttons his suit jacket and sits on the corner of my desk. “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to take you out to lunch.”
    “Is it lunchtime already?”
    “It’s one thirty in the afternoon. Tell me you’ve eaten something today other than that.” He points to my to-go mug on the far side of my desk.
    “Of course I have,” I lie.
    He leans forward a bit. “Like what, exactly? And don’t say Butterscotch Krimpets.”
    I have a stash of Butterscotch Krimpets in my desk. They are my one and only guilty pleasure and taste sinfully good, especially when dunked in coffee. But today I’ve been so absorbed in my work that I haven’t had one . . . yet. I would have, though, in an hour or so, if Jonathan hadn’t shown up when he did and offered to take me to lunch.
    “Fine,” I say in defeat. “Let’s go.”
    When we approach the elevator my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, and it shows an unknown number again, and this time whoever or whatever it is left me a voice mail. It’s probably a telemarketer. This doubles as my work phone, which means I get bombarded with calls, e-mails, and texts all day, every day, so an unknown number isn’t out of the ordinary. Especially when my desk phone’s calls have been forwarded to my cell phone since yesterday. Just when I’m