Hot Stuff

But now? If I’m interested in someone, I should go for it.

Quickly, I snag my phone off the end table beside the couch and open it up to my contacts.

I quickly scroll through them to the Gs. When nothing comes up, my eyebrows knit together.

What happened? Where did his number go?

I move back to the As, a little bit of panic making my fingers shake. Holy hell, what am I going to do if my phone just, like, spontaneously deleted his number? He doesn’t have mine. He’s going to think I chose not to get in touch—that I didn’t want to—and that’ll be that. He’ll meet some supermodel and start dating her, and I’ll see him on the cover of some magazine or Firefighters Illustrated one day and think of what could have been.

Maybe he entered his last name first?

I scroll back to the beginning of the list and check all the As, but there aren’t any Alexanders in there at all.

Oh God.

Okay, okay. It’s fine. I’m going to handle this like the grocery store when I can’t locate something. I’m going to walk every damn aisle until I find what I’m looking for.

One by one, I flip through the numbers as J.Lo falls in love with the wrong guy in the background. It takes much longer than expected—there are a startling number of people in there I can’t place at all—but when I get to the Ts, a blanket of relief falls over me.

THE Garrett Alexander, right there in bold print in the list on my phone.

Not Garrett Alexander.

Not Alexander, Garrett.

But THE Garrett Alexander.

Dear God, if he only knew how much he fucked me up by trying to be cute with his entry.

My thumb hovers over the button to call him, the jitters making it feel much more like a leap across the Grand Canyon than a simple touch of the screen.

I look back up at J.Lo in her red dress, toss down the phone, and turn up the volume as she finds out, ever so painfully, that the hot doctor she had butterflies for is actually the fiancé of her latest client.

Not available. Not dreamy.

But scummy. Betrothed. Taken.

Her pain feels like a knife in my chest. Her anger feels like my anger as I think about all the men out there with their own agendas. All the women they’ve left in their wake.

And suddenly, my little life with my TV dinners and ancient rom-coms doesn’t seem so bad.

There’s a reason I’d convinced myself Garrett wasn’t a good idea before I ran into him today. In fact, there are about a thousand of them, with the most poignant of all being that he works for my dad.

I’m better off fighting it out on my own. Waiting it out. Taking my life as it comes and putting myself first. Continuing to focus on my career.

There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s smart. It’s calculated. I know what to expect out of my life now.

And I’m almost positive if I use this number—if I call or text or contact Garrett—knowing what’s coming will be a thing of the past.

Do I really want that kind of angst in my life?

I think not.

Resolved to my TV and wine once again, I toss my phone down to the other end of the couch and grab the remote instead. The volume is low, so I turn it up more. Almost too much, to a completely obnoxious level, but that’s the glory of being on my own.

No one is there to complain or tell me to turn it down or change the channel. I do what I want, when I want, and no one can stop me.

Yeah.

No. Heck yeah!

I fork another mouthful of cauliflower into my mouth and chew angrily.

I’m not sure why exactly, other than the fact that I’m now super amped-up.

I definitely need to calm down or I’m never going to be able to sleep tonight. And J.Lo definitely sleeps. She has to with that perfect complexion. She’d have hollowed-out cave circles under her eyes if she didn’t sleep.

I pick up the remote and turn the volume back down, my shoulders sagging dramatically.

I take one glance at my phone on the other end of the couch with longing.

Maybe a little unpredictability wouldn’t be so terrible?

I mean, I’m having some sort of breakdown-ish conversation with myself, all in the form of an inner monologue. It might be nice to have arguments with an actual human at some point.

Actually…what’s stopping me from doing that?

I don’t have to call or text Garrett. I could totally call or text someone else. Someone safer. Someone who’ll stop me from going insane without turning my entire life upside down.

My sisters!

Scrambling to the other end of the couch, I grab my phone again and open my group message with Shell and Cara. It’s a running thread, though I have to admit it’s not exactly impressive.