Page 74 of Miss Behaved
“Me,” I mumble with the beer bottle against my lips.
“Exactly. You. And it wasn’t easy. I know I was a dick to anyone and everyone. Pissed that I’d never get to play again. But you stuck by my side, even convinced me to go for that sportscaster gig. And now look at me.” He waves his arms out like he’s the shit.
Brandon Morris, former quarterback, current ESPN host.So he pretty much is.
“Point taken,” I tell him.
“Do I want to lose the best wingman on the planet? No fucking way. But I’ve never seen you like this over a woman, and I’d be a shit friend if I didn’t point that out to you.” He tips his beer bottle at me. “I’m not saying to drop your life here or make any big decisions. But don’t close the door unless you really think there’s no chance.”
“I don’t know if there is,” I say. The echo of Monica shutting the door is still running on repeat in my brain. I circle the counter and smack him on the shoulder. “But thanks anyway, man, I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” He finishes the last of his beer. “She must be something, that’s all I gotta say.”
“She is.”
She’s everything.
Brandon stands up and turns to me. “Now, I was gonna ask you to hit a new club up with me tonight, but—”
“I think I’m gonna stay in.”
“Figured.” Brandon stretches his arms overhead. “We’ll catch up tomorrow. I’ve gotta go call Charlene and see if she’s bringing that feisty little friend of hers.”
“The redhead?”
Brandon grins at me.
“And I’m pussy whipped?” I laugh at him. “You’ve been hung up on that chick for months now.”
He nudges my arm. “It’s a mighty fine ass pussy.”
“Mm-hmm.” I grin, and he slaps me in the arm. We both know Brandon doesn’t go back for seconds just because of a nice pussy. Apparently I’m not the only soldier falling on the front lines.
He waves goodbye as he heads back across the hall, and I almost stop him to say that maybe I will go out with him tonight. After all, it’s not going to do me any good sitting around waiting for a woman who made it perfectly clear she wants to put me in the past.
But even if I’m moping or being pathetic, I don’t say anything.
I look down at my phone—there are no new messages from Monica. Just that picture of the rain haunting my thoughts, her nonresponse sitting quietly between us.
Maybe Brandon is right, and I shouldn’t close off the possibility. The only problem is he doesn’t know Monica like I do. She’s stubborn, and her mind seems made up. Not to mention that she’s probably right. This is for the best. She’s built a great life, and the last thing she needs is me showing up and making a mess of it.
But where does that leave me?
The next ten years are bound to be a repeat of the last. I’ll be sitting around and waiting for a different outcome to magically manifest in front of my face. I close my eyes and squeeze them tight, wishing, hoping, as I open them.
Nope, no Monica. You’re just an idiot.
An idiot who can’t help himself.
Thumbing over my contacts, I hit her number. Every ring hits me like a punch in the gut until it goes to voicemail.
“This is Monica Meadows, leave a message—”
Not sure why I expected her to answer; she’s made her stance clear. I’m the decade-long mistake she had to get out of her system.
Or maybe she would have answered my call, but she’s out with friends. Maybe Steven came by to get his stuff, and she realized she’s not over him. I’m going to be sick playing one scenario after another in my mind and hating every last one of them.
I grab my bag and decide to distract myself with unpacking, anything to get her off my mind. But when I get to my toiletries, I spot something in my things that shouldn’t be there—cinnamon toothpaste, the grossest toothpaste flavor there is. What kind of person doesn’t use mint?
