Triple Love Score (36 page)

“Can you hand Daddy the phone?” she asked.

“Soccer practice. No phone rule,” Lynn texted back.

The dots indicating another incoming message came up quickly.

“I forgot. No phone! Love you, Randa.”

“Love you, too,” Miranda texted back.

Scott wouldn’t be available for at least an hour. She thought about calling Danielle. But neither one of them could tell her how much damage Ronan had done this time.

K
, HERE,” Kristen said, answering her phone.

“Miranda, here,” Miranda replied. “I think I have a problem.”

“I’m here to serve,” Kristen said. “Shoot.”

“There might be a problem with the Ellen Show. I think Ronan, you know the one—”

“The one from the university? The student?”

“Yes,” Miranda said, swallowing hard. She didn’t want to argue the point. She was in no position to argue anything right now.

“Oh, that, so you got the email, too?”

“The email?”

“Yes, the one to the producers at Ellen; they sent it over yesterday for confirmation.”

“What did you say?”

“We have a policy of always staying in front of these things. Admit, Accept, and Move on.”

“You told them?”

“No, he told them. I confirmed. Admit, Accept, and Move on.”

“Does Ambrose know about this?” Miranda asked.

“Of course, it’s his policy.”

“What did the Ellen people say? Is she going to ask me about this?”

“They said thank you. We never get to approve the questions before hand. Some of these producers still feel they are journalists.”

“What am I going to do?”

“I sent you the itinerary, right? Just be ready when the car comes, Miranda. This is huge. Be sure you have a dance prepared.”

Twenty minutes later, after she finally made her way back to the hotel, Ambrose texted her. “Scandal drives sales. Whatever it is, roll with it. And don’t forget to dance.”

Instead of going up to her room, she took a seat at the lobby bar for the first time on this entire trip. She ordered a bottle of Shiraz and tried to figure out the best way to prepare Scott for what he might see on the television the next day. The wine did little to improve her problem-solving abilities. With the bottle empty, she had even fewer ideas than before. She thought about ordering a shot of Tequila or maybe Jack Daniels or something Technicolor from the mirrored-shelf behind the bar. Instead, she decided to do what she promised to do: share her life with him.

He listened carefully, saying uh hum, and okay at all of the right places. “Dancing?” he finally asked.

“It’s a thing on Ellen,” she said. “The guests dance in.”

“How bad could it be?” he asked. “If they have you dancing, it’s not a hard-hitting news show. What time is it on?”

“The afternoon. Like three or four.”

“So not prime time?”

“Nope.”

“So they aren’t going to ask about sex, Randa. There might be children watching. You’ll be fine.”

“But soap operas are on in the afternoon. That’s all sex.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful. Okay,” she said. “I’ll go along with you. But what if they cancel?”

“That’s your last stop, right?”

“Yes. Just the show and then I am done.”

“Then you come home early. I see no problem there. I will move heaven and earth to meet your plane. Even if it’s early.”

“Early, huh? You ready for me to be back?”

“More than ready. I never wanted you to leave, remember? You’ll do fine.”

“Hmmmm—” Miranda said. “So it’s going to be fine, you say?”

“It already is fine. You still love me, right?”

“Of course,” Miranda said.

“Good. I still love you. What else matters?”

Between the wine and his sweet talk, Miranda agreed.

The next afternoon, Miranda messaged Lynn from Ellen’s Green Room. “What dance should I do?”

“Your best one,” Lynn replied. “Or wait, maybe just spin like a ballerina. On your toes.” Lynn sent the emoticons for a ballet slipper and smiling face with a pink bow on top.

Before Miranda could find the emoticon for a horse, the animal she felt would most closely mimic her dance style, the stagehand signaled her out on stage. Taking Lynn’s advice, Miranda stumbled out on to the stage, faked a pirouette and spun a few times to Ellen’s couch.

“Before we get any further,” Ellen started. “We have to clear this up. You’re a cheater.”

Ronan, she thought her stomach threatening to erupt its contents over the stage. She locked her eyes on Ellen, pleading with her silently not to go any further.

But Ellen continued anyway. “You play Scrabble by yourself, without any rules. Do you really need to win that badly?”

The punch line. A joke.

Miranda felt her shoulders creep back down into place. The interview went well from there. A staffer brought out a Scrabble board, and Ellen called on audience members to give themes for the Blocked Poet. Miranda tackled Pembroke Welsh Corgis and the Tampa Bay Rays, before an older lady in a navy blue pantsuit stood up and took the microphone. “I couldn’t say it out loud, but they told me I could write it down, and you would do it.”

A staffer appeared behind Miranda and handed her a note written in the most delicate cursive. Jeanine, the woman in navy, wanted to propose to Sue. The note explained that after twenty years together, gay marriage was now legal in their home state.

Miranda quickly arranged, Marry, then Me off of that and Sue off of that. The cameraman focused his camera tight on the puzzle, and it filled the screen behind Miranda and Ellen.

Sue bounced from her seat and threw her arms around Jeanine.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she screamed.

A staffer led the couple, who refused to let go of each other’s hands, down to the stage. Ellen photographed this sculpture, posting it to her own Twitter and Instagram, tagging Blocked Poet in each. The music cued, and another staffer led them all off to the green room.

Miranda showed Jeanine and Sue her own ring. “I just got engaged, too,” she squealed with them, excited for their happiness and for not being on the stage anymore.

“When’s the wedding?” Jeanine asked.

“I don’t know. We haven’t gotten that far yet. There’ve been other things to take care of.” She gestured to the room around them.

“Well, we aren’t waiting,” Sue said. “I reckon we will do it tomorrow when we get back home.”

“So soon? Don’t you need to plan anything?”

Jeanine picked up Sue’s hand and kissed it. “We already worked out the hard part; why wait? You never know what’s going to happen tomorrow. You can’t really plan for that—you only think you can.”

“Ladies,” a staffer interrupted. “Ellen wants to see you now.”

Jeanine and Sue stood up straight and clasped hands. “Thank you for doing that for us. We’re going to blow up the picture and frame it for the living room. Right over the fireplace. Thank you,” Jeanine said.

“It was my honor. Congratulations.”

“Oh, you might want to check your phone—it was buzzing terribly before,” the staffer said.

Alone in the green room, Miranda fished out her phone. Then her phone hummed with the alerts from Ellen’s Twitter and Instagram. Thousands of new people started following both her accounts and then lingered on them, liking and re-tweeting past entries. She thought immediately about Ambrose. And sure enough, he texted, “Kudos, Blocked Poet.” This right before Lynn texted, “I need to teach you how to dance before the wedding.” And Scott texted, “I love you. If I had known all I needed was a Scrabble board to propose, maybe I could have done it sooner.”

Miranda flagged down a girl with a clipboard and a headset walking by. “Can I have one of those Scrabble boards?”

“Um, sure,” the staffer said. “Can I get one of those games back?” she said into her radio.

Miranda paced the length of the green room, counting each time she touched a wall. At one hundred and fifteen, another person with a headset popped into the room, Scrabble board in hand.

“Last minute inspiration?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Miranda said.

She flipped open the box and started pulling out tiles. The staffer didn’t move to leave. She stopped and looked up at him.

“Oh,” he said. “Just holler if you need anything else.”

“Thank you,” she said.

With the door shut behind her, she quickly arranged, Marry me, Friday on the board. She pulled out one of the question mark tiles from Kristen’s special order to finish it off. She sent the photograph to Scott. Within seconds, her phone rang

“What do you mean by Friday?” he asked. “Which Friday?”

“You know, the one tomorrow,” she said.

“But what about all the plans?” he said. “I know that Bunny and Avery could work wonders, but you don’t even have a dress or flowers or anything.”

“I don’t need any of that. If I set it all up, will you do it?”

“Will I marry you tomorrow? Is that what you are asking?”

“Yes, that is what I am asking.”

“Do you think you even need to ask? Will you even be home tomorrow?”

“I will, but I am still waiting for your answer.”

“Yes, Miranda, I will marry you tomorrow.”

“Good, then you better let me go. I have some phone calls to make.”

She started to Google the church, the one where she last saw her mother. But she stopped and opened an email instead. She told Kristen all about the church, asked for the next flight to Newark, a car to take her to said church, and a pastor to marry them.

As Miranda slipped from the building into a cab bound for the airport, Kristen replied with her singular, K. Twenty minutes later, she replied with, Done, billed to Blocked Poet accounts. Then her phone buzzed again.

“Invites?” Kristen asked.

Miranda stared at her phone as the city whirred past her cab. Then she replied just three and sent Kristen the email addresses for Lynn, his parents, and her parents.

Then she turned off her phone and surrendered to the last leg of one journey and the start of the next.

I
’M ALWAYS AFRAID TO WRITE an acknowledgements section because I don’t want to leave any one out. But I wouldn’t be able to think up the crazy things I imagine to write down and send out into the world without the help of some pretty wonderful people.

There’s my family. It goes without saying without the people who raised you wouldn’t become a writer. Some people might think that is a jab, but in this case, my family always loved me for who I was, even if I am weird. To be a writer, you need someone to love your odd self from a very small age.

Then there’s my friends, the people who choose to love me even though I am weird. Without them opening their hearts, homes, phone lines, Facebook feeds, and lunch calendars, I might have self-destructed long before the book ever saw the light of day. Heck, before I even saw the light of day; sometimes a lunch date is the only reason I shower.

There’s a subset of friends called archers. This group taught me some amazing stuff like working for your dreams and never giving up. While we never talked about writing (busy, shooting!), they sure showed me what it takes to get where you want to go. My heart is filled with gratitude for my coach, who taught me thoughts are things. His guidance is so much deeper than bows and arrows.