Colin drops his chin in sympathetic indignation.
I wave him off. “Whatever. From what Rae says, he’s another type of baller, and while I’m not interested in settling down, I’m also not interested in being a guy’s regional booty call. I do insist on monogamy, serial or otherwise.”
“Well, well, well. As you should. But if he were offering that?”
Considering that for a few seconds, I stare into the middle distance, then answer wistfully, “It would be nice to get laid again someday.”
Oh gosh. No. I didn’t just say that. To Mr. Widower T. Celibacy, of all people!
My back straightens, and I blink to attention, studying his face to gauge his reaction.
His eyes widen, and he rubs his forehead while suppressing a smirk.
“Not by you!”
Gaaaaaaaaaah! What?
He rests his chin on his knuckles, bites down on his pinkie, and winces, assuming a comically terrified expression.
“Not that I think it wouldn’t be nice. Or that I think about it at all!”
Shut up, Maura! Shut the hell up now!
But I can’t. I don’t seem physically able, that is. My lips and tongue and vocal chords are operating independently of my brain. Obviously.
“I’m sorry. I’m freaked out right now and not thinking clearly and just saying whatever comes to mind. But having sex with you wasn’t even on my mind, so I don’t know where that came from.”
He stands, taps his toe, and makes a big show of looking at a watch that doesn’t exist on his wrist, while I snap, “You’re the one who brought up Jet Knox! I was perfectly content to forget all about him. Keaton Busch would be a better time, anyway. He’s such a funny guy with his touchdown dances and goofy selfies. What was your original question?”
When chuckling results in more coughing, he sobers, clears his throat, and replies, “I honestly don’t remember. I was simply making small talk and indulging in a bit of a silly hypothetical. Then your filthy brain exploded on your desk, and—”
I plunk my forehead on top of where my filthy gray matter supposedly is and groan. The papers under my face move when I whimper, “I shouldn’t have said any of that. I’m sorry.” I lift my head. “It was rude. Now… it’s like— Is it going to be awkward?”
He shakes his head and pulls a face. Folding his referral and jamming it into his shirt pocket, he says, “Not on my part.” When I fail to look convinced, he scratches his ear. “Listen. It’s probably crossed both of our minds, whether subconsciously or whatever, that we could toss some ‘benefits’ into our friendship and come to a decent arrangement, but eventually—for whatever reason—things would get messy, and neither one of us does well with ‘messy,’ so that’s that.” He looks down at his tie and flaps it.
When I say nothing to his speech, he stands with his referral and walks to the door.
“With that, m’dear, I believe I should take my leave.” A loud sniff serves as the punctuation to that declaration. He opens the door. A rush of blessedly cooler air wafts in.
I take a deep breath and exhale loudly. “Okay, then. Good luck on your job interview.”
Completely casually, as if we’ve been talking about job placement this whole time, he tosses over his shoulder, “And good luck on your… endeavors. Sorry I’m not the man for the job.”
With a saucy wink, he tucks his hands into his pockets and exits the office without looking back.
If I were a different person, I’d be tempted to stress about my mortifying conversation with Colin. But he seemed cool. He’s right that nothing is ever going to happen between us.
However, it has been a long time. If he had his heart set on adding some benefits to the mix, I’d consider it. I’m that horny.
Just kidding.
Not really.
A buzzing in my desk drawer distracts me from the buzzing in my underdrawers.
I retrieve my phone and see it’s been busy in time-out this afternoon. Several missed calls and three voicemails.
I don’t recognize the first number, but that doesn’t mean anything. If someone had a gun to my head and said I had to dial up any of my friends or family from memory or take a bullet, it’d be all over but the splatter.
The robotic voicemail lady announces, “You have… three… unheard messages. First unheard message:”
“Oh, hey. Maura. Jet here.”
An immediate uptick of my heart rate suddenly makes it difficult to hear the recording. I bump up the volume with a shaky hand, nearly dropping my phone.
Jet Knox, Jet Knox, Jet Knox! If I had known, I probably would have answered the phone in the middle of Colin’s appointment. I’m not proud of that, but I’m past the point of pretending I could ignore a call from Jet Freaking Knox. It doesn’t escape me, though, that he sounds surprised to be calling me.
To his credit, he attempts to recover with, “Uh, how’s it going? It’s been a while… Right? Thought I’d give you a call, since I’m back in town.”
Hmm. Well, at least he knows I’m a home-city girl. Of course, the area code on my phone number would tell him that.
“Maybe you’d like to—I don’t know—go out, or something? I won’t tell the coaches if you don’t. It’s supposed to be nose-to-the-grindstone now that we’re prepping for the playoffs. But all work and no play kinda sucks. Give me a call back if you’re up for it. Bye now.”
Before the next message can play, I hang up and stare at the device in my hand, willing myself to stop panting and sweating like a walking hormone with a crush on a boy band member.
The fact remains that Jet Knox asked me—or someone he sort of remembers with my name—out on a date. Must not get too excited. Must not do anything uncool, like call someone to brag about this.
My fingers fly through the menus on my phone. When my brother answers, I
