“Sure it was.” She sighs. “Mom called yesterday. Asked when you’re bringing someone home for Christmas.”
“Christmas is eight months away.”
“That’s how long she thinks it’ll take you to find someone worth bringing.” A crash in the background, followed by Tim’s voice saying something about broken dishes. “I gotta go. But Dex? Maybe try talking to a woman who doesn’t want anything from you. Might be good for your soul.”
She hangs up before I can respond, leaving me standing in the parking garage thinking about copper hair and nervous laughter.
My condo feels empty after the noise of the arena, the silence pressing against my ears like cotton. I grab a beer from the fridge and collapse onto my couch, pulling out my phone to survey the weekend’s social media damage.
The usual flood of notifications, DMs, comments. Women offering everything from dinner dates to explicit photos, most of them convinced that sliding into my messages is somehow different from the hundreds of others doing the exact same thing.
Still waiting for my turn, Daddy. I know you’ve seen my pics
Saw you with that brunette last week. I’m way hotter and I don’t have daddy issues
My sugar daddy can’t afford me anymore but I heard you’re VERY generous with the right kind of girl
I scroll faster, deleting without reading. The same recycled fantasies, the same assumptions about what I want, the samewomen who think being available is the same as being interesting.
Victoria’s name pops up—the model from three months ago who’s been acting like we had some grand romance instead of two mediocre dates.
Heard you’re coaching kids now What’s next, changing diapers? Let me remind you what a real woman feels like...
Delete.
All of it gets deleted, the endless parade of options that somehow feel less appealing than they used to. When did sure things start feeling so fucking boring?
I close the app and open my photos instead, scrolling through recent shots until I find the group photo from last week’s learn-to-skate session. There’s Tyson, standing slightly apart but smiling. Blythe front and center, posing like she’s already planning her Olympic routine.
And there, barely visible at the edge of the frame, a flash of copper hair.
I zoom in on her face—what little I can see of it. Even in a candid shot, caught off guard, she looks... I don’t know. Real. Like someone who belongs in my world instead of just visiting it.
My phone rings, making me jump. Rodriguez’s name flashes on the screen.
“What?” I answer.
“Dude, you coming out tonight? Place downtown has that new DJ, gonna be packed. Already got three girls asking where you are.”
I look around my condo—the expensive furniture, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the silence that costs me eight grand a month.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“You’re good? Bro, it’s Monday night and you’re turning down guaranteed pussy? You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling fine. Just not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood?” Rodriguez’s voice climbs an octave. “When have you ever not been in the mood? You’re Dex fucking Malone. Being in the mood is literally your brand.”
I don’t have an answer for that. Because he’s right—when have I ever chosen to stay home on a night when I could be out collecting phone numbers and making promises I don’t intend to keep?
“Rain check,” I say finally.
“Rain check on what? On being yourself?”
After I hang up, I sit there staring at the photo for another ten minutes, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
3
