Upon graduating, I’d taken Miss Independent to Vibe, and they offered me a weekly feature. My column, called “Ask Miss Independent,” had started at a student-run publication, and I had quickly developed a following. I was an advice columnist for Vibe, a magazine about relationships and sex and urban culture. Isn’t that what you always tell your readers? ” Pausing in the act of stirring a handful of frozen veggie crumbles into the sauce, Dane said, “You can’t run away from your fears. “Let the machine pick up.” I hadn’t spoken to either of them in at least two years. “It’s either my mother or my sister,” I said desperately. Those three digits were enough to start me hyperventilating. It was enough to make any native-born Texan cry, but for Dane’s sake I was trying to get used to it. Dane was a vegan, which meant we used soy protein in place of ground beef in our chili. “It’s a 281 number,” my boyfriend Dane said, sautéing tofu in a pan, dumping in a can of organic tomato sauce. Call it a premonition, paranoia, but something about that sound severed every comfortable feeling I had managed to stitch around myself. “Don’t get it, ” I said as I heard the ringtone of our apartment phone. _because every day I spend with you is the perfect day _
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