“Who’s your friend, Marg?” Jazz comes up beside me, and I’ve never been so grateful for her presence.
Becca iced me out after I quit the team.Shewas the one who stopped beingmyfriend. Has she forgotten all that? Has enough time passed that she dropped whatever grudge she was holding against me?
“Jazz, this is Becca. We played volleyball together in college,” I say.
“Hi! I’m Becca!” Becca extends her slender hand out to Jazz, her smile never cracking.
Jazz, being bubbly and still riding the high from our match, gladly shakes Becca’s hand.
“I’m Jazz. I’m Marg’s teammate…Well,formerteammate,” Jazz teases, knocking her elbow into my ribs and winking at me.
I smirk down at her, knowing the inside joke, but Becca’s clearly none-the-wiser.
“Ha. Still ditching teammates. Guess some things never change.” Becca may think she mumbled that just low enough for the music to drown out her words, but I heard her. Loud and fucking clear.
“Well, it was really cool bumping into you, Becca. Maybe I’ll see you around again.”
“For sure. Maybe we can grab lunch or something. Catch up.”
I nod, with little intention to reach out to Becca. I think it’s best if my past stays in the past.
As we turn back to Sasha and Eva, Jazz shouts, “Did Dr. Jon Jacob text you?!”
Oh shoot! I’ve been so preoccupied with everything I haven’t even turned my phone back on. The moment my home screen powers up, my phone vibrates and buzzes with dozens of unchecked notifications. Missed calls. Voicemails. E-mails. Text messages. Voice memos. Social media updates.
I quickly sift through everything, looking for Jon’s name. I find one text from him that he must have sent right after the match finished. I feel my entire body get warm.
“You got it. You got it bad!” Jazz sings the Usher song horribly off key, but I break out in laughter all the same.
I really do.
“Ohhh. I know that kinda look. Who is it?” Sasha asks, her blue eyes slightly glazed from all the alcohol.
“Some hot doctor she met out in Paramount!” Jazz says.
“Jazz!” I shove her. Then turn my attention back to my phone, rereading the quick text from Jon.
“What? It’s true. Look at you. Drooling over a text message,” Jazz chimes in again.
“Girl, if he’s able to make you smile like that, don’t lose him,” Sasha says.
“We’re just talking,” I downplay.
“And riding faces,” Jazz scoffs.
“Jazz!”
“What? It’s true,” she repeats, holding her hands out in the shape of a heart.
I can’t be mad at her for speaking the truth.
“Alright. Enough talk about this,” I say, turning my phone off and stuffing it back in my bag. “Time to dance!”
I get no arguments from the girls, and Eva is the first to take another shot and lead us out to the crowded and loud dance floor.
30
JON
