Page 23 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

“I’ve been thinking about something,” I admit.

She bumps my shoulder gently. “What is it?”

I look down at my hands. “I spent weeks wondering what you’d think when you met me.”

She says nothing. Just waits.

“I kept thinking...” I shake my head. “...what if the real me disappointed you?”

Her expression softens. “Cal.”

“I know the interviews. I know the headlines. I know I’m not exactly...”

She steps closer. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re exactly who you’ve been pretending not to be.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“I think you’re kind. I think you’re thoughtful. I think you have a good heart.”

My throat tightens.

“I know the man who stayed awake texting me until two in the morning because I couldn’t stop crying after a terrible day.” She smiles. “I know the man who went ring-shopping with his best friend, because he was nervous.”

I blink. “I told you that?”

“You tell me lots of things.”

She reaches out and lightly smooths an invisible wrinkle from the front of my jacket. “The interviews are the real you. This is it.”

“You make me feel...” I search for the word. “…seen. For the first time.”

Her eyes shine. “So do you.”

The hallway feels impossibly quiet. The city glitters beyond the glass.

I look at her. Really look at her.

She’s somehow even more beautiful than she was in every picture she’d ever sent me.

Not because of the dress.

Not because Monica had a team of professionals fussing over her all afternoon.

Because she’s smiling at me like she already knows every awkward, anxious part of me, aand she’s still here.

“I’ve wanted to do something all night.”

She tilts her head.

“I was hoping you would.”

I smile. “You know what it is?”

“I have a pretty good guess.”