I toss a wave over my shoulder, hiding my profile. I layer cheerfulness into my tone. “Love you, too! Have fun!”
The door latch breaks me a little more.
Waytoo many pierogies later, I lay swaddled in my sorrows in front of the T.V. A dripping romance show contestant stands screaming at another contestant for pushing her into the pool during a cocktail party.
It’s like watching a train wreck, and I love it.
Although it’s well past midnight and I have an early spin class tomorrow, I can’t quite bring myself to roll off the couch and go to bed. I also don’t want to wake up tomorrow to an empty condo, but I digress.
My phone begins a melody in my pocket, and I wiggle it out. The contact photo is nothing but a stop sign emoji, and the name reads, “Before you do, don’t.”
I startle to a sitting position. Why on this green earth is Brandon calling me?
Exhaustion and curiosity get the better of me, so I override Past Kate’s warning.
“Hello?” I say.
“Uh. Hey.” Brandon’s voice is husky and quiet, like he’s trying to keep this call a secret. Those two words sound way more exhilarating than they should, and I realize I’ve made a mistake.
I pause for a beat too long.
“You can’t hang up now, Kate. That would make this way more awkward than it already is.”
I sigh. “What do you want, Brandon?”
“That’s a loaded question.” He sounds exhausted, and I’m oddly comforted by that. Like the playing field might be even.
“Okay, then can I askwhyyou’re calling? And”—I check the time on my phone—“well after midnight? Oh crap. Is this a booty call? I swear, Brandon, I’ll kill?—”
He chuckles, and I can’t ward off a tiny smile.
“Relax, I’m not calling to hook up. Though Iamopen to revisiting the topic of your booty later.”
“Brandon.”
“Fine. I’m sorry for calling so late, I just got home from a movie. I figured you’d still be awake with it being a Friday night and all. And I guess I’m calling to cash in for your sorry boxing skills.”
I search for a loophole with all the ferocity of a caged animal. “That bet over Pulse Fitness wasn’t actually real.”
He puffs a laugh. “It was every bit as real as your booty, Kate.”
“Brandon!” I shake my head, but a laugh slips out.
When he speaks again, I swear he’s smiling. “I won, Kate.”
“Nothing about that fight was fair.”
“Maybe not,” he agrees, “but I do want you to learn to box. There’s a ton of creeps out there. More women should learn to box when they’re younger.” Something dark lurks beneath his tone, and I can’t seem to locate a snarky rebuttal.
“That… makes sense,” I say.
“So?” His voice is midnight velvet.
I can sense my defenses slipping dangerously fast, and I clamberfor traction in my thoughts.This is Brandon. The same turd of a tank who stole the nice office chair and intercepted the call with Mr. Winthrop.
“So what?” I say.
“Is that a yes?”
