“No way.”
“Told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
“He has a playoff game on Sunday! He doesn’t have time for dating.”
“Even so, he called me at 1:30-ish and left a message on my voicemail. Maybe more than one. I didn’t check the others.”
“Where are you guys going, then?” He still sounds annoyingly skeptical.
“I haven’t called him back yet.”
“You’re leaving Jet Knox hanging? For almost four hours? I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that when you finally call him back, he’s already made plans with someone else who was more convenient.”
My stomach drops. “Oh. Shit. I didn’t think of that.”
“Do you honestly think you were the only chick he called when he had the urge to ‘go out’?”
Well, when he puts it that way, I’d be an idiot to admit that, yes, I indeed thought that. “No! I mean, maybe. Why not? You’re saying he went through the greater Kansas City area numbers in his phone until he got a ‘yes’?”
“I guarantee it. I’m sure it didn’t take long. He’s probably already banging some girl in the hot tub on his bedroom balcony.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m realistic.” After a few beats of silence, he says, “But you should still call him back, just in case.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do! Trust me, you’re not cool enough to snub Jet Knox. This could be the most awesome thing that’s ever happened to you. And who knows? Maybe it’ll lead to something. Like playoff tickets.”
“I’m hanging up on you now.”
His laughter flows from the phone’s speaker as I stick out my tongue and press the red button to disconnect.
Bouncing my knee, I contemplate whether I have the guts to call the quarterback, only to have him screen my call or, worse, answer and tell me his offer has expired. A few extra minutes won’t hurt, so I check my other voicemails, in case any of them are Jet, saying, “Never mind!” and will save me from further humiliation.
One of the messages is from Mom, announcing she and Dad are back from their latest round of globe-trotting and asking what happened to the plants I was supposed to be watering. (Oops. I guess they’re dead, since I completely forgot about them.)
The other is from Rae.
“What’re you doing tonight? I have a bona fide date, if you can believe it. Met her at the airport on our way to Denver, and we’re meeting for drinks. Molly. She’s a drug rep, or something. I guess I’ll call you later and let you know how it goes. Bye!”
I take a deep breath and lean against my desk. The rest of the office is empty and dark. While I’ve been in here acting out my private drama, my co-workers have gone home to their lives. Boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands and wives, kids, pets, hot dinners, and favorite shows await them.
There’s not so much as a frozen dinner waiting for me.
With a pang I realize I have nothing to lose by calling Jet. No pride left, for sure. And if he’s already moved on from his earlier invitation, then I’ll never see him again, and it won’t matter.
Press it, Maura. That green square with the phone on it. Press it, select the number that belongs to one of the NFL’s hottest players, and see what happens.
Seven
First(ish) Impressions
After handing my eight-year-old Honda’s keys to the valet, I stand under the trendy restaurant’s awning, trying to be subtle about pulling my tiny panties from the crack of my butt, where they seem to want to hang out tonight, under my jeans.
Don’t ask me why I wore the dumb things. It’s not like I’m going to let anyone see them. I guess I thought wearing the sexy matching set would give me confidence. I underestimated the crack factor. There’s no feeling confident or sexy or anything but uncomfortable when you’re fighting a perpetual wedgie.
Underpants moderately in place, I tuck my clutch under my arm and clip-clop on my high-high heels past the doorman. Inside, I give the maître d’ my name, as Jet instructed me on the phone.
“This way, Miss,” I’m told right away, earning me some dirty looks from others who obviously have been waiting in line for a while.
For the first time in the past ninety minutes, I’m preoccupied with a thought other than, This is crazy. Part of me is still thinking that as I smile over my shoulder at them and say, “Sorry,” although I’m not. I’m too amazed this is happening to me to be sorry about anything.
Well, maybe I’m somewhat sorry I didn’t take Jet up on his offer to pick me up. But a rule’s a rule. I never let a guy do that on a first date. Including—maybe especially—Jet Knox. Safety first. Don’t want to chance getting stranded somewhere, at the mercy of a six-foot-four whack-job who outweighs me by nearly a hundred pounds. Still, it would have been gratifying to see the envy on people’s faces if I’d arrived on the QB’s arm.
Being swept to the front of the line and beyond, into the packed, buzzing bar and dining area, is satisfying enough. As it is, I keep thinking that any minute now, I’m going to wake up.
That wakeup call arrives at the same time I make it to Jet’s table.
It’s not until I’m standing directly in front of him that he clambers to his feet, realizing I’m his date. He hurries around the table and dismisses the maître d’ so he can pull out my chair for me, hugging me lightly before I take my seat. Despite the dim room, I easily notice him size me up, looking relieved at what he sees after he returns to his seat.
Maybe I should be offended, but I can’t fathom how many people he meets. It would be naïve to think he’d remembered me, some dullard he met at a Christmas party weeks ago.
He smiles across
