Dex’s voicemail tells me to leave a message.
“Dex? Okay. Hello, Dex’s voicemail box. Tell me if you recognize this scenario, ‘kay? Help a girl out here. You’ve been seeing this guy. Right? Greeeeat sex. I’m talking, hot sex, like nothing and no one you’ve ever sexed with before, you know? Great talks. He…He gives you the vibe that he’s majorly into you. He even throws the L-word at you—”
BEEP.
I look at the phone. His stupid voicemail just hung up on me.The audacity.
I call again. Dex’s voicemail tells me to leave another message.
“Jus…lemme talk, ‘kay? This guy…this great, sexy, smart, fun guy even plans a dinner for your birthday at your favoritest bar. That’s not a word. But you get my point, right? Then poof. The guy disappears. Now, wait up a second. I know that this is not the end of the world, we were just getting to know each other and—”
BEEP.
“NO! Stop hanging up on me, dumbass.” I squeeze the phone and slap it. I drink more wine and call his numberagain.
It’s Dex’s voicemailagain.
“Did I do something wrong? Did I say something? Did you die, maybe? Did somebody die? Because, Dex, you missed my birthday. It’s right now. Today. And no one came to that dinner you set up. And I ate two bread baskets. You didn’t even text me. Call. Email. What’s the deal, Dex? I’m so over the three-day response time. I thought we were—”
BEEP.
You hollow-balled shitbrain. Why does his voicemail hate me?
I take a deep breath and call again. This time his voicemail is full.
How many calls can voicemail hold until it’s full? How many times did thatArea Code 203number leave a voicemail before me? Did she fill up his messages with pleas to reconcile their relationship, all because she saw he’s writing Pippa’s tell-all book? Did he listen to them?
I don’t even know if he has a landline at his apartment. If he does, he never offered it to me. My heart beats faster. I don’t know what to do or what to think.
Oh, I know what to do: Open another bottle of wine. This one is a Riesling and I have no clue how it found its way into my cabinet, and I don’t really care. It’s here and it’s open and it’s poured.
I take a huge gulp. It burns my throat. I freaking hate Riesling.
I throw myself back on the floor, only to realize I’m already lying on the floor. I need to talk to someone. I need to get all these thoughts out of me right now, before I drown in them. I need someone to logically tell me what to think and do right now to get a hold of Dex. Maybe I could play a game of phone roulette and call the first person my contact list pulls up?
No. I need to talk to someone who knows Dex. Someone of the masculine sex. Someone to mansplain to me what Dex is doing.
Nate’s number catches my eye.
Nathaniel Cross.
I press his contact number and listen to it ring.
His deep voice comes on the line. “Jane?”
My heart, already drumming wildly, pulses at the base of my throat like it’s trying to escape. “Nate.” My voice is hoarse and cracking. His name ends on a sob.
“Jane? What’s up? Is everything okay?” he asks, letting out a deep breath.
“How long, do you think, is life going to screw me before it wants to cuddle?” My words slur, but I think I’m getting my point across just fine.
“What?” he laughs. “Jane, are you okay? What are you talking about?”
I clear my throat and it comes out in a weird whiny sound.
“Jane? Are you drunk?”
“I may be a bit socially lubricated at the moment. So? I’ve seen you drunk like a thousand times already.” I hiccup and listen to him move around. I vaguely wonder where he is and if he’s alone. “Is Dex with you? Vanstone? Dex Vanstone?” I like saying his name. “Did you know,” I hiccup again. “Did you know his real name is Declan?”
