I sigh, setting my knife down. At this rate, I’m going to be getting my entire life delivered via FedEx, and never talking to anyone at all. There are just too many idiots in the world who think my tragedy is their comedy.
Fine, so I haven’t always helped things when I’d replied to the snorting twat-waffle at the grocery store that I craved red meat when Aunt Flo is visiting and asked, with a fake-sweet smile, if he’d ever earned his red wings. I was hungry for fresh sausage that night.
Bitchy? Probably.
Crass? Definitely.
But why should I have to be well-mannered with everyone else when they’re not with me? It’s not like this sense of fatalistic weirdness just popped up overnight. Oh, hell no, it’s been the product of years and years of growth, layer upon layer built up like someone painting the same spot over and over until it’s like a little armored onion.
Blake Hale had some good manners and wasn’t scared off by your weirdness, my conscience reminds me. He was cute, too.
That’s true, but not helpful either. Not when I’m doing my best to not think about the sexy, smart, flirty man who makes me want to forget why I’m doomed to a life alone. Or at least pretend to be someone else for a little while.
I swap my chicken and vegetables in my skillet and brown up the chunks. As usual, I made enough for two, but Jacob is out tonight. I know he’ll be back later with the appetite of an eighteen-year-old kid, so I throw the second serving in the refrigerator for him to reheat later and settle in on the couch.
This is my life—PJs at 7pm, dinner for one, watching reality television, and pretending I’d kick ass if I were on Survivor. Bear Grylls has nothing on me.
Well, except all the actual outdoor experience and willingness to eat live bugs and drink urine. I’m definitely out for that and would prefer to starve while dying of dehydration.
It’s why I learned to fucking cook.
I’ve only had one bite of chicken and broccoli in white wine sauce and the rehash of last week’s episode is still rolling when my phone rings. I glance down in case it’s work or Jacob, but it’s an unknown number.
Well, it should be because it’s not in my contacts, but I know those last four digits. One-four-seven-three . . . it’s Blake.
In shock, I sit up straight on the couch even though he can’t see me and my heart rate skyrockets in an instant.
“Oh, mah Gawd! Do I answer? Do I decline? What do I do?” I ask the empty room, cream sauce messily dribbling down my chin when I talk with my mouth full.
A car horn sounds outside, almost like a warning from fate, and I take that as a sign to decline the call.
But somehow, as I shuffle my blanket, plate, fork, and phone around, still trying to swallow without choking, I hit the wrong button. “Shit. Shit. No . . . ah, hell,” I hiss as the numbers on my screen start counting up. 00:01 . . . 00:02 . . . and I can hear a voice tinnily coming from my speaker. In full freak-out mode, I stare at the phone in horror and do the only thing I can. I hit End Call.
Smooth, Zoey. Real smooth.
I tap my forehead with the phone, praying that did not just happen. I didn’t accidentally answer and then hang up on Blake, right?
Please, if there’s a God up there, let it be that he just butt dialed me by accident.
My phone rings again in my hands, the electronic beep sounding like ‘ha, ha, gotcha.’ No such luck. I just hung up on him because that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens to me—embarrassing, awful, and awkward.
This time, I do manage to hit decline right away. No, no, no. Why is he calling me? I filled out the paperwork, so that’s a done deal, and after the incident at the beer barn, he should definitely be running for the hills. The ones far, far away from me, like on the other side of the state. Or maybe the next state over.
But yet . . . my phone rings a third time.
He’s hardheaded . . . and dammit, that makes him even more attractive to me. So I hit the green button on my screen, bringing the phone up to my ear.
“Uh, hello?” I say hesitantly.
“Zo, you okay?” Blake asks, urgent concern making it all one word.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?” I say, nervously brushing my hair behind my ear because I always let my hair out at home and for some reason, I don’t want him to think of me as a mess.
“Why?” Blake repeats on a huffed laugh. “Because it sounded like you were getting attacked and then the call disconnected. And then you didn’t answer. I was afraid you were getting mauled by a bear or something!”