4
MAGGIE
Just as Etta Jo starts to offer me the words of encouragement—that I’ll likely protest but probably need to hear—her roommate, Giselle, breezes in. “Ooh, frosting and chips,” she says as if that’s not a strange and surprising combination.
“Help yourself,” Etta Jo says, the picture of hospitality.
“The craziest thing happened today.” She goes on to tell us an outrageous story about meeting a football player from the Miami Riptide who’d taken her to dinner on his yacht.
“Maggie, don’t you know a football player?” Etta Jo asks.
Giselle leans in. “Ooh. Which team?”
My hand reflexively presses against the heart charm around my wrist—it used to be a necklace, but the chain broke, so now it’s on a string. Declan gave it to me when we graduated and told me to follow my heart. He’d also said, “No matter where we go, no matter what we do, I promise that I’ll always be there for you.”
“Come on, dish up the juicy deets, Maggie.”
“He plays wide receiver for the Boston Bruisers.”
Giselle waggles her eyebrows suggestively. Etta Jo leans in as if I’d ever kiss and tell. Not that Declan and I have.
“We. Want. Details,” Giselle says.
“Starting with his name and vital statistics,” Etta Jo says.
“Especially the scandalous ones. Come to think of it, we hardly ever talk about your dating life.”
That’s because it’s as mythical as unicorns and as nonexistent as dinosaurs. And I’d rather forget about the guy I most recently fell for—emphasis on fall, but not into a fountain. More like I stumbled over my better judgment.
As if reading my mind, Etta Jo taps the air. “Oh, wait, there was Sly the Single Guy.”
“A mistake of which we shall never speak.”
“The takeaway is always searching guys’ names online before you go on a date.” That’s Etta Jo for you, always looking for the upside.
I huff out an exhale, still resenting my ex. “Sylvester Zeman should’ve come with a warning label.”
“At least he didn’t post about it on his YouTube channel.”
“No, because while he capitalized on living large as a bachelor, he had a secret and thriving dating life, and that would’ve been bad for the brand.” I do not hide the disdain in my voice.
“I’m sorry you were one of his victims.” Giselle taps my hand. “I heard some other women started the hashtags #Don’tBuySlysLies and #ByebyeSly.”
It’s almost enough to make me laugh, but I’m not quite there yet. While I thought I had to pander to get a guy to like me, that doesn’t mean I ought to give him the keys to the kingdom, er, my van. By the time Sly was done with me, I was at risk of having to panhandle. The guy cleaned me out, taking my cake-loving dreams with him. Literally.
“We don’t care about that loser. Tell us about the football player.” Etta Jo’s southern accent is so encouraging, if I knew nuclear codes, I’d be at risk of revealing them.
“Not much to say.” That’s the truth.
She eyes my fingers, which clasp the charm around my wrist. She bumps me with her shoulder. “Oh, come on. Tell us about the wide receiver for the Bruisers. I need to live vicariously through you girls. The last football player I spoke to was Augie Roberts, who was the star QB for Neil Marsh Regional High School in Willoworth County, Georgia. I’ll never forget the last thing he ever said to me.” She lowers her voice a few octaves. “‘Etta Jo, I know you and I would make beautiful babies as Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, but Mama always said my hair is going to take me places and I’d like to see where before I settle down.’ And there I thought it was his athletic skills.” She lets out a fluttery little sigh.
We giggle.
“So, when did you meet this football stud? How’d you meet?”
“Declan? Who said anything about him being a stud?” I ask.
“He’s on the Bruisers, of course, he’s a stud—in a rugged, manly kind of way,” Etta Jo says matter-of-factly.
