Page 31 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
Grant nibbles on the corner of his lips. “Yes.”
My eyes pop. “Tell me.”
He sighs heavily. “I’m not sure it’s my story to tell right now.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that. Bear with me, okay?”
I huff. “Seriously?”
He nods, his eyes intense. “Yeah, I promise.”
I’m dying to know what’s up, but I also respect that he may not be ready to tell me.
The last time we talked about Declan was before I left the country, when Grant went dancing with Layla, Tia and me. At the club, he admitted just to me that he still missed Declan. I was surprised since he’d seemed so low-key about his ex at that point. But then, he definitely wasn’t low-key after his first spring training.
“But how about you tell me more. Why did it feel right with Holden?”
“Feeling right” was a topic the two of us discussed over late nights in my dorm or his dorm, or the commons. How would I know when it was right? We could debate it endlessly as we considered the guys at college. Considered then often dismissed them. No one floated my boat. Or his. We were such peas in a pod.
As for Grant, he waited until he was twenty-two.
I was twenty-two when I met Holden.
Maybe that was the magic age for both of us.
“It felt right at the time, even though we hardly knew each other,” I explain. “I liked Holden a lot, even in such a short time. He was respectful. He was interested in me as a person. And we just . . . connected. This might sound crazy, but I felt like I knew him. Do you know what I mean?”
Grant squeezes my thigh, a reassuring touch. “I know exactly what you mean.”
I scoot closer. “Is that how it was with Declan that first time?”
He takes a few seconds, maybe falling back in time, into memories. “It felt right,” he says softly. “It always felt right.”
Right.
That’s how my one night with Holden felt.
“That makes sense. I felt that too—like I’d have no regrets with Holden,” I say. “Even if I didn’t see him again. But then when we talked about seeing each other again, it felt even more right. Almost . . . fated. But fate had other plans.” Time to let go of thoughts of my almost first time once and for all. I fasten on a bright smile. “So, when I meet the next guy that feels right, I’ll know what to look for—someone I’ll have no regrets with.”
“That sounds like a game plan.”
We shift gears and talk about work, with his season kicking off in a few days. This week, I’m starting my new gig with a sports marketing firm in the city that does some great work with nonprofits.
We chat about that, then join Layla and Tia for dinner.
Here I am, together again with my closest friends.
In the same city as my mom.
Sharing food, laughs, and hugs, chatting about all the little things we didn’t talk about over FaceTime or text during the last couple of years.
Tia tells us about a new podcast she is in mad love with called Badass Babe. It’s for women and by women, and it’s all about being productive, successful, and taking no shit, she says.
I download it immediately to my phone.
Layla confesses that though she loves Istanbul, she feels a little lost not knowing the language well enough, and she misses home. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability for her.
“Well, I personally wouldn’t complain if you were in San Francisco,” I add, then turn to Grant. “And give me all the details you didn’t share when I was gone. What have you been up to?”
Narrowing his blue eyes, he hums as if deep in thought. “Not much, to be honest. Just busy with work, you know.” He takes a beat, raises his left hand, and strokes his chin.
Oh, so blatant.
“Oh! I remember. I did win a World Series,” he adds.
Like I didn’t know. Still, I grab his hand and gawk appropriately at the gaudy thing.
It’s so good to be back.
To have this time with these people.
This is what matters most.
Not the man who might happen to be in this city too.
11
Reese
On Monday morning, everything feels new.
I put on a cute black-and-white pindot blouse, pair it with simple black slacks, and slide on a jacket.
As I walk to my first day on the job as a PR manager, I savor the sprinkling of early spring warmth as I go, with the sun jostling its way to the forefront of the sky, shoving aside the fog rolling through the city.
I cherished my time in Peru, in Colombia, in Chile. But Dorothy was right when she said there’s no place like home. I’m clicking my ruby-red slippers the whole way to work. I turn onto the block where my new office is housed.
