A deep, masculine voice clears his throat. “Is this Michael?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
He snickers. “Just a friend. Listen, Imma do you a solid. This is not Maggie’s number.”
I freeze and try to process his words. I double-check who I dialed, and sure enough, it’s Maggie’s contact info on the screen of my phone. “What do you mean? I’ve left her a million messages. Were they all going to you?”
“Yup. And I gotta say, your night sounded hot as hell.” He lets out a whistle. “But I think your girl Maggie got her one-and-done and ghosted ya.”
I’m going to be sick. “She didn’t give me her number.”
“See? Case in point.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Her brother gave me her number. And I guess… I guess I punched it in wrong. Or I misheard. I don’t fucking know except it’s been weeks now. Jesus, if she wasn’t pissed at me before, she is now.”
“Tough cojones, brother. Listen, by any chance are you Michael Oliver, the running back on the team? You go by the nickname Olly?”
I close my eyes and tilt my head back. Great. Just what I need now. For my dirty laundry to be aired out across town. “Who wants to know?”
“Just a fan. I’m Samuel, by the way. I think we had bio together freshman year.”
“Hey, man. How’s it going?” It takes every ounce of energy in my body to be friendly.
“By the sound of it, better than you. Hey, we’re having a little shindig over here tonight. Wanna come over and toss back some beer?”
Fuck it. “Yeah. Sure. Think you might want to help me figure out how to win back a girl who probably hates my guts by now?”
A deep chuckle rumbles out of the phone. “I’m a plotting master. Get your ass over here, and we’ll figure it out.”
18
MAGGIE
Nothing about this feels right. Greg smiles at me across the table, and I try to return the gesture.
We’re having dinner at this new restaurant. The lights are low, and the candlelight on the table is romantic. I guess I’m not in the mood for this right now.
It’s been three weeks. I shouldn’t be thinking about Michael, but I’m ashamed to say I am.
The way he smiled and made me laugh. How he gave me shit, which made me want to serve it back. The push and pull of our banter.
Now that my anger has quelled, I think about our night together even more, if that’s possible. How he held me, the way he made my body fly apart, the sounds he made when he came.
How he looked at me.
Let me ask you this—how can a man look at a woman like he wants to gobble her down whole and then not call afterward?
Thinking back on our pillow talk sends me into another downward spiral.
How do you share your hopes and dreams and fears when you’re naked in a woman’s arms and then ghost her? He told me about his injury and rehab and how he wants to get drafted to help his family. Was it all meaningless?
“Maggie, would you like a different kind of wine?”
It takes me a second to realize the waiter is standing next to the table. Greg repeats his question.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” I take a tiny sip. It tastes so tart, I shiver. But I was raised not to complain about dinner if someone else is treating. As someone who came from a poor family, my mom taught me to try to appreciate what’s offered, even if it isn’t to my liking.
If I eat first, perhaps I’ll be in the mood for some wine.
