I stare at the screen for a minute.
And then the phone rings. And I’m so startled I don’t just drop the phone, I toss it–straight up. It does a thriple axel in the air then comes down on the screen and falls to the floor, skids a couple feet in front of me. My life, my job, his number are all stored in this phone. And if something happens to it, I don’t know that I’ll survive it.
I pick it up and look at the undamaged screen. Thank goodness.
And it’s still ringing which is also a good sign. I slide my finger across the screen. “Hello?” It’s tentative, like I might want to take it back in a minute, but I won’t. Nobody takes back a hello.
“Girl!” Oh, I know the voice, the word said in such a way no one else in the world says it, the woman at the other end of the line.
“Molly!” Relief surges through me. I don’t love talking on the phone. I don’t like the immediacy of it. With a text, there’s forethought, then a moment for afterthought, and then the conscious decision made by my brain to send. With a spoken conversation, except for clients, there’s no telling what might come out of my mouth.
“Where have you been hiding?” I’ve seen a couple missed calls from her, but by the end of the day, I’m too tired to make coherent conversation.
“I’ve been so busy with new clients and open houses. I feel like I’ve been running into myself coming and going.” It’s true. I don’t mention the texting with Walker.
And like a friend who’s happy for my success, she laughs. “That’s great, Belle.” She has the kind of voice that is always sunny. Personality, too. “I knew when you bailed on our weekly lunch, you had to be busy.”
Weekly lunch. Dang. I’m a horrible friend. “Oh, Mols, I’m so sorry.” How did I forget lunch? It’s our thing. We get together to complain about all the things that have happened this week. And I forgot. Maybe I didn’t have enough to complain about.
“Don’t worry about it. I know you’re busy.” Her forgiveness makes me feel worse. But she isn’t the kind of friend who gets mad. She’s the most understanding person I know.
“I’m worried about it. Friends don’t…” I shake my head at myself. “Friends don’t flake. And I did. I’m really sorry.”
She laughed. “I just want to make sure you aren’t pining over Caleb still or crying into your fake spritzers over some other guy I haven’t met because we didn’t get together this week.”
I should tell her about Walker. Right here. I’ve managed to find time to text him all week, but not her and for that alone, I suck, but I don’t mention it aloud. And I don’t have a reason why.
“Nope. I’m good.”
Molly laughs. “Great.” There’s a slight pause before she starts again. “I thought maybe the reason you didn’t make it for lunch is because you and Walker were hot and heavy and getting hotter.”
“What?” She mentioned Walker.
“Hunter said Walker’s been talking to a woman named Belle. He mentioned that you and Walker had a moment.” She laughed again. “I told him it couldn’t be you. This is information you would’ve called one of your very best besties to share. But then he said it was definitely you. And that he wasn’t telling me, but that you might have a story to tell about Maisie Klein’s bachelorette party?”
Oh, crap. She knows stuff.
“It’s just a few text messages. Nothing big.” Even though I want it to be.
“The kiss at the bar sounded kind of like a big thing.”
“Damn that Hunter for sharing my secrets.” I try to sound nonchalant and playful, but I purse my lips because I’m a mad failure at nonchalant.
To be completely honest, I forgot all about Hunter being there. I know him, of course, recognized him right away, didn’t for one minute think this would be a thing so, beyond my first glance at him, my brain removed him and made the entire memory of that night about Walker.
“I hope that’s because you wanted to be the one who tells me all the dirty details.”
“Of course it is.” And there’s a knock on the door I don’t want to answer. Because no one knocks on my door. But I stand to answer, fully prepared to decline company. Brad Pitt could be at the door right now and I wouldn’t care. Not interested. “Hang on.”
I yank the door open and there she is, Molly, smiling, holding a four pack of juice breezers and a bottle of 7-up and a pizza. This is a woman who knows the key to my heart.
She breezes in past me. “I don’t wait for Mohammed to go to the mountain.” She gestures to the pizza. “Mountain.” Then to me. “Mohammed.”
I laugh. She’s a showman, clever and witty, the right personality to be a friend to someone like me. Not that I have an impenetrable shell or anything that deters people from me. I couldn’t be a realtor if I did, but I’m selective about who I let into my life. Molly makes my head lighter. I need that. And I keep her more centered where she used to be unfocused.
When we both have our fake wine spritzers and our plates of deep dish supreme minus black olives in front of us, she nods. “All right. Tell me.”
I give her the scant details of the party, the full details of the double dog dare–right down to the song being sung at the exact moment I walked over to Walker–and I smile thinking of the moment I first heard his voice. Smooth. Deep. Sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
