The Trouble With Quarterbacks

“It’s an omen,” I suggest as I dunk my head under the running tap in the kitchenette and decide whether or not I should phone a doctor. Can I get rabies from bird poop? Is some of it in my eye now or is that just my tears? I’m having a proper freak-out.

“Just calm down and come round over here so we can give the bloke a call. I can’t believe you’ve sat on this number the last three days and done nothing with it. Look at him!”

I shut off the water and grab a vibrant pink tea towel to wrap around my sopping wet hair, leaving me looking like a turbaned palm reader when I walk back toward the sofa.

“You look lovely,” Yasmine says with a dead-honest tone. “Pink is a good color on you.”

“Oh shut it, will you? And pass me your mobile.”

“Mine? Why mine?!” She immediately holds it up on the other side of her, out of my reach.

“Because I’m not going to call him from mine. That’s embarrassing!”

Kat volunteers. “Whatever, use mine. But if he calls back and insists on chatting with me, well I’ll probably have to give it a go because honestly he’s the hunkiest man I’ve ever seen and I don’t think you’re adequately appreciating all he has to off—”

I yank away her mobile before she can finish her rant and phone him using the number I’ve now memorized by heart.

It rings for ages. I think I grow fifteen chin hairs by the time his voicemail finally kicks in. There’s no deep voice there to greet me with an invitation to leave a message, just a stale robot insisting I wait until after the beep.

I don’t, of course. I chicken out and hang up immediately.

“Well then, there you have it.”

I pass Kat her mobile back, prepared to let the dilemma rest. I’ve tried now, haven’t I? But then her mobile starts vibrating and the three of us shriek bloody murder so loudly our upstairs neighbor bangs on his floor, politely telling us to shut the fuck up.

“IT’S HIM!” Kat shouts, frantically waving her arms. She tries to pass me her mobile, but I don’t want it. What am I supposed to do? Answer it?!

Yasmine groans and stands up to retrieve it, answering the call with a cool, clipped “Hello?”

I motion for her to put it on speakerphone, but she doesn’t.

“Yes, hi. No, this isn’t Candace. This is her friend, Yasmine.”

I’m melting into a puddle of embarrassment. I can’t believe I’ve let it drag on this far. He’ll think I’m mad, and I am, actually, but I was hoping he wouldn’t find out about that until well into our friendship, after he’d grown fond enough of me to appreciate my quirks.

“What’s she doing?” Yasmine repeats. She eyes me up and down, clearly uninspired by my lackluster attire. Then her eyes land on the tea towel. “Oh, she’s just…stepped out of the shower. Yes. That’s why I’m the one answering.”

Oh good thinking. Now he’ll imagine me all wet and in my knickers. In real life, I’ve got on yellow cotton panties and a pale blue tank top I’ve had for so long it used to be navy.

“You want to speak with her? Sure, let me just make sure she’s not still nude.”

“YAZ!” I mouth, waving at her to cut it out.

“Oh good, she’s got on this silky little robe. Barely decent, really—”

I yank the mobile out of her hand so hard I scratch her cheek. She winces in pain and I am sorry, but well, what choice did I have?!

“H-hello?” I say, immediately running toward my bedroom so I can barricade myself inside for some privacy. I get the door halfway closed before my two flatmates weasel their way in. Privacy is obviously not happening.

“Candace?” Logan asks, sounding a little amused.

“Yes, hi.” I’m breathing heavily now, trying hard to get them to ease up on the door so I can force it closed, but it’s two against one, and I’m the runt of the litter; there’s no way I’ll overpower them.

I sigh and let it swing open. They stand in the doorway, arms crossed while they listen, mighty proud of themselves.

“You sound like you’re working out or something,” he notes.

“No, just…showered, like Yasmine said.”

“Huh.” He sounds less than believing. “It’s just that you called a second before I did. So did you call while you were in the shower?”

Oh bloody hell! So he’s got brains and brawn?

“Oh…I don’t…not sure. Maybe it was a butt dial?” My voice goes all high-pitched and squeaky. I’m making no sense.

“Right. Is this your number?”

“No. It’s my friend Kat’s. My mobile is…dead.”

“You’re acting odd.”

I am odd. That’s what I want to say, really. Just lay all my cards out there so there’s no preconceived notions of me being fit for proper human contact. Best to just lock me up with some food and water and leave me be.