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“No! Well, a little, yeah.”
It feels good to have someone feel jealous of my time. Not annoyingly jealous but clearly anxious to see me. To see just me, and not Serenity Jackson, Golden Globe winner.
“You should stay with us!” I say. “It’ll be just like old times! Only, Dad has a house now.”
“Too late. I got a nonrefundable hotel room.”
Of course, he did.
“Are you calm now?” Cian asks.
Funny, I’d forgotten how keyed up I felt when I texted him my apologies a moment ago.
“Yes,” I say.
“Don’t feel too bad about standing me up,” he says. “The game was thrilling, and I ran into Duane and Anna. We reminisced about old times. They invited me to a threesome; it was amazing.”
I snort into the phone so loud that Nando glances back to check on me. “Really?”
“No,” he says. “The game was torture, Duane still wears his fucking Oakleys on the back of his head like an absolute gobshite, and Anna stepped on my foot three times to leave to use the restroom because she has a massive cocktail in her monogrammed water cup.”
Sounds about right, all of it.
“Oh god, am I really going back to Ohio? Can’t I fly you and Dad out here to see me instead?”
“My aforementioned nonrefundable hotel room rate says otherwise.”
I don’t suppose he’d let me reimburse him. My gut says no.
“Fine,” I say, remembering what my therapist says about letting go of the past, blah blah blah.
“I’ll meet you at the party, Cian. It’s gonna be great to see you.”
“Ah…”
“Yes?”
“This sounds weird, but you know how in weddings, sometimes they let the groom see the bride in a private moment before the ceremony so they can just have a moment to themselves?”
What in the world is he getting at?
“Um…yes?”
“Don’t get any ideas. This isn’t a marriage proposal,” he says, laughing nervously. “But I want to see you before any of those other idiots get to see you.”
He wants a private moment. That’s what he’s getting at. Oh. Okay.
My heart thumps crazily at how silly and sweet and romantic that sounds.
“Of course, Cian. I’d love to walk into the party with you.”
“We don’t have to make a big entrance or anything,” he says. “I don’t want people getting ideas.”
I can hardly believe the words that come out of my mouth next. “Oh, they’ll get ideas. They’ll get all sorts of ideas when we walk in together, and my lipstick is smeared all over your mouth.”
With my face on fire, I hang up before he can respond.
“We’re here, Ms. Jackson.”
