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Mickey rolls her eyes playfully. “And you’re making my point for me.”
“I think your original point was that Nick is bad news. Not sure you’re convincing me.”
She lightly smacks her forehead and then peers into her nearly empty mimosa glass. “What the heck is in these?”
Leaning casually back in her chair, she continues, saying, “Hold on, I can work it around. Okay, yeah. The problem with a guy like Nick is that sure, he doesn’t care about the milk in his coffee or if his favorite sports team didn’t make the playoffs. You’ll never see him shotgun a beer or paint his face in his team colors.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Is there a negative coming?” I ask.
“Yes!” she insists. “As irritating as most guys are with their douchebag tendencies. As incomprehensible as baseball and canned light beer is to me personally, at least they’re predictable. You know what Joe Average is going to be up to on a Friday night. But Nick Madison? What does he care about? What’s going to send him over the edge? Who knows?” Mickey shrugs. “Maybe I’m being overly dramatic, but personally I think it’s for the best that you’re not having to tiptoe around this guy for the rest of the summer.”
Mickey’s not wrong, but she’s also not fully right. Brent was a completely average guy and he still managed to catch me off guard in the worst way possible. That being said, I’ve had my fill of surprises from asshole guys. I don’t need to spend any more of my time getting yanked around.
Still, I can’t stop myself from wondering just what Nick Madison gets up to on a Friday night. A completely unwanted image of toe-curling, headboard-rocking, orgasmic bliss flashes before my eyes. I bat the thought away and try to relax my core.
I take another bite of my shrimp cocktail. “You’re right. But that being said,” I say, pointing at her deliberately with the tail of a shrimp, “I’m never dating another guy who wears body paint to a football game.”
Mickey cringes. “Did Brent do that?”
“Constantly,” I say. “He’s an agent and his clients are all athletes. So he gets season tickets to every major stadium. I’ve been to soooo many embarrassing games with him and his asshole buddies. One year they spelled ‘Fuck the Yankees’ on their chests, and we all got kicked out of Fenway.”
Mickey groans at the image. “Bet you’re glad to be free from that shit show.”
I grin and raise my mimosa. “You know what?” I say. “I am.”
We clink glasses and relax into thoughtful silence, enjoying the weather, the vibrant city life moving around us, and the delicious seafood. As I watch a bike messenger speed past a man in a suit and sneakers walking a terrier, as the sun reflects off the buildings and dapples through the trees, I wonder if maybe I don’t need the excuse of this contract to make a change in my life. Maybe once I get back to Boston I’ll start looking for jobs in New York. There’s no reason for me to stay in Massachusetts now, and I suppose the upside of being too young to be taken seriously is that at least I’m also young enough for a new start.
On the other hand, what if moving to the city finds me a cynical asshole in five years? The thought is enough to make me want to run straight back to my native suburbia.
“Uh oh,” Mickey says. “What’s that face?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired of things not working out.”
Before Mickey can respond, my phone rings.
It’s face up on the table and we both look over, reading the name of who’s calling at the same time: Jackass.
My mouth drops. My stomach isn’t far behind. Shit.
“Is that your ex?” Mickey asks at the look on my face.
“No,” I say. “It’s Nick.”
She hisses and makes the sign of the cross, like Nick is a vampire arising from hell to suck our blood and steal our souls. “What are you going to do?”
“I have to answer it. Right?” I look to her for help but Mickey just throws up her hands.
Suddenly I’m struck by the ridiculousness of my reaction. Why am I flustered? It’s just a phone call. And he should be the one who’s embarrassed after how he’d behaved, both on the train and in his office. Besides, it might not even be him. It’s just his office that’s calling.
I pick up the phone and vow that this time I’ll keep my composure. This time I’ll be calm and collected. This time Nick won’t get to me.
It’ll help that I can’t see him.
I take a deep, calming breath and answer on what has to be the tenth ring.
“Hello?” I say like I have no idea who’s calling and hopefully also like I’m lounging in a bathtub drinking champagne that was delivered to me by my horse-hung lover.
“Ms. Davis.” My name curls off his tongue, long and low.
