“I’ll send her a text right now.” I grab my phone and fire off a message to Summer.
A minute later, her yes arrives.
“She’s in,” I say with a smile.
Matthew pumps a fist. Rosario holds up a hand for high-fiving. The others cheer.
“Way to go, woman!” Matthew says, and then wags a finger at me. “Now, admit it. You have a whole contact list of friends you can call on for nearly every sitch, right?”
“I do indeed,” I say with a wink.
And that’s how I want my life.
Busy with buddies. This weekend I’m going to Fitz’s wedding with Bryn and Logan. Then I’ll check out dinosaurs with Ransom for our official date. Maybe during the week, I’ll go for a run with Summer.
Good times, good people, and a good life.
The life I carved out for myself after my father died. One I’ve worked hard to maintain and won’t jeopardize.
Except, when I go home that night, I’m a little lonelier than I was before. I click open my text app, contemplating sending Ransom a text, since I desperately want to chat with him.
To trade more silly date ideas.
To send goofy gifs.
Or to just . . . talk.
Like we did on the way to the auction. Or in bed Saturday night. Or on Sunday morning too, when he saw through me to what made me tick.
When I flop down on my couch, I open the message thread with Ransom, just as a Google Alert pops up.
It’s for City Post’s hottest athletes.
That’s interesting. Looks like this list was posted right after the auction.
I click on the piece, and I grin—Ransom’s at the top, followed by Adrian, followed by the Yankees shortstop. There’s an asterisk at the bottom lamenting Fitz’s absence from the list.
*After several years owning these lists, James Fitzgerald is no longer eligible on account of his pending marriage to Dean Collins this weekend. Fitz, we wish you and your husband-to-be all the best for a long and happy life together, and we thank you for all the times you did qualify for our hottest single athletes in the city.
Naturally, I screenshot that and send it to Fitz.
* * *
Teagan: I guess all good things come to an end.
* * *
Fitz: It is indeed the end of an era. And I am all good with that.
* * *
Teagan: As you should be. Quite a run while it lasted though, King of the Hotties. Former King, I mean.
* * *
Fitz: I humbly surrender my crown to the next crop of single AF jocks.
* * *
Teagan: And there are plenty of them! See you this weekend. I hear the cake is going to be dope. As well as the grooms.
* * *
Fitz: So dope that you should dance with the forward from my team. And on that note, I’m outta here!
* * *
Teagan: Good night, Cupid Groom.
* * *
I return to the thread with Ransom because I know he’ll want to see this, then maybe we’ll have some friendly banter over it, but that’s all it will be. I’m not texting him just to text him, like a girlfriend would do. It’s exactly the same as I just texted Fitz.
* * *
Teagan: Look who’s on top!
* * *
Ransom: Those damn lists.
* * *
I stare at his response quizzically. It’s not quite as exuberant as I’d have thought.
* * *
Teagan: You’re probably tired of those. A dime a dozen.
* * *
Ransom: That’s not it . . .
* * *
My phone rings, and it’s the man of the hour. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi. You okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just exhales. “So, the thing is . . .”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned.
“Nothing. I swear it’s nothing.” He sighs. “How are you?”
It’s not nothing. It’s definitely something. “You’re changing the subject. Are you sure it’s nothing?”
He seems to wave it off, dismiss it, with “It’s stupid.”
My brow knits. “Is it though? It sounds like you’re bothered. Did I touch a nerve when I sent you that list?” I ask, a little worried, since something is clearly eating at him.
“Okay, here goes. When I first started dating Edie, I was on a couple of those lists of athletes.” He sounds sheepish at first, like he’s embarrassed, but it’s a cute sort of embarrassment. “Until the media figured out I wasn’t available, and then I wasn’t on them anymore.” He sounds more serious than I’m used to hearing him. “But she didn’t like that I had been on them.”
I sit up straighter, listening intently. “Was she worried she’d lose you? Is that why she didn’t want to see you on the single-in-the-city lists?”
“That’s what I thought at first,” he says heavily, like this is a painful admission. Like it costs him something to have this conversation. But he hasn’t shut it down, so maybe it’s a price he wants to pay.
“I take it that wasn’t the reason she disliked them?”
