Colin blinks up at me. “What? But we haven’t had a chance to see if there are any new Murder, She Wrote mystery novels with the exact same Angela Lansbury face Photoshopped on every cover.”
I wince at skipping one of our favorite bookstore traditions. “Yeah, but I’m wiped out. By the time I fight the traffic and get home, I’ll be ready to collapse.”
“I didn’t say anything to upset you?” He stands and hugs me, then pulls back and holds me at arms’ length, searching my face. “I hope you know my teasing about Captain All-American is only in good fun.”
Waving off his explanation, I say after a snort, “Does that sound like me? When I stop being able to laugh at myself, get the gun.”
Still gripping my arms, he says, “In all seriousness, mate, he’s a bloke like any other. I hope you don’t think he’s out of your league, excuse the pun. No, don’t. It’s brilliant. If you like him, you shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”
I shrug him off, but gently, so I don’t let on how annoyed I am. “Colin. It’s fine. I promise. Shopping wears me out, that’s all.”
“If you’re certain…”
“I am.” In an effort to convince him, I yank my hat onto my head and pull it over my ears, pulling a funny face. “Au revoir, mon ami.”
Nine
Charmed
I may not be guilty of sitting around, stressing about the condition of my 401K or revising endless versions of my five-year plan (I’ve never had a first version of one), but that doesn’t mean I never worry about anything. I do worry about stuff. Granted, it’s usually more along the lines of whether the Chiefs are going to make wise picks in the Draft, but every once in a while, I stray into darker, more dangerous territory. Like, Am I ever going to grow up? or Will I always be alone? or When was the last time I went to the grocery store? Occasionally, I’ll think about something truly scary, like, Is it time to renew my car tags?
This evening, after dumping my bags of purchases inside my bedroom door, taking a hot shower, and selecting the least romantic movie I can imagine (The Hangover), I struggle to ignore some of those deeper musings, and fail. Miserably.
I’m moderately more successful at ignoring the three voicemails from Jet on my phone (two of his calls I missed while shopping and talking to Colin, the other while I was in the shower), if you call not listening to them a victory. That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about them—or him—though. I’m thinking about him plenty. Too much. Wondering what he thinks of this movie. Would he and I laugh at the same parts? Does he get the subtler jokes or only find amusement with the obvious, physical humor?
What about Bradley Cooper’s other works? Has Jet seen Silver Linings Playbook? Did he find it as sweetly romantic as I did? Did it make him cry while trying to hide he was crying, because Rae was sitting next to him and would have made fun of him for being a sap? Probably not that last thing.
What does make Jet Knox cry? Anything? He seems like a pretty happy-go-lucky guy. But what about losing? If he lost, say, the Super Bowl, would he cry? Or just be mad? Or what if he won it? There’s no shame in crying. I like people who feel deeply and don’t mind showing it occasionally, around people they trust and care about. Did Jet cry when his fiancée left him to be a single dad to their dog?
Gaaaaaaaaaah! I shift on the couch under my fleece Chiefs throw blanket, blinking and trying to refocus on the movie. Tiger, missing tooth, Ken Jeong. Funny.
But before I can reorient myself to the plot, my cell phone moans. I stare at the device on the coffee table and implore my innards to settle the hell down at the sight of that name on the display.
Why can’t the guy text or IM like a normal person our age? Then I could better react to what he says, and I wouldn’t have to hear his voice, which is becoming my Kryptonite. No, that would be his eyes. But his voice makes me feel like a giddy moron. As does the way he smells. Thank goodness he’s not into video calls, and there’s no such thing as a smell-o-phone.
In a text message, I could also control the tone and pace of the conversation. I could pause between responses. Slow things down a bit. In a regular phone call, he’s in control. Which wouldn’t be an issue for me, usually—control ain’t my thang—but in this case, the person in control wants to go faster than I’m comfortable going.
The paradox, unfortunately, is that I can’t get a handle on anything if I continue to avoid him, so before yet another call goes to voicemail, I tap the green button on my phone’s screen, hoping my voice doesn’t shake when I say, “Hi, Jet,” and put him on speakerphone.
“Hey. Did you get my messages?”
“I did.”
Please, don’t ask if I listened to them.
“Oh. Are you busy?”
I pause the movie and consider my answer, finally going with a noncommittal, “A little.”
Busy being terrified by my weird, obsessive thoughts.
“Well, I wanted to tell you I had an excellent time last night.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” When I wasn’t searching for a paper bag to breathe into.
“Good! I’m glad. Mega-glad. I’d like to see you again, but…”
I hold my breath and close my eyes, praying for an insurmountable hurdle to our being together, other than his use of the term “mega-glad,” which might be enough but would sound “mega-shallow” to cite out loud. An arranged marriage between him and the scantily clad woman who rides around the stadium on that white horse—Horse Lady, to me—would work. Or he’s being traded to another team. In Europe. Anything like that. I don’t want
