Awhistlecomesthroughmy FaceTime, catching me off guard as I try to get dressed.
“I think you forgot you aren’t wearing pants,” Maggie says, pretending to fan herself.
“Ugh, sorry!” After I grab the jacket I was looking for, I make sure my thong and bare ass aren’t facing the camera–my phone propped on the mirror so I can use both hands.
“Don’t apologize but do feel to drop the deets on that glute routine because damn,” she jokes, and it brings a twinge of heat to my cheeks. It’s mostly missing her and the way we make each other laugh—plus maybe the smallest sliver of embarrassment. Since she’s a world away, chasing bad ass tennis player dreams, we do a lot of random video calls like this.
Once I put on my favorite pair of skinny jeans and a leather jacket, I step in front of the mirror, bringing my phone with me. I’m checking myself out when Mags chimes in again.
“Quit touching your shoulders. The jacket looks good. You look hot.”
Rubbing my upper arms, I try to push the doubt back, the one my truest friend can locate even when she’s thousands of miles away. I’ve always been self-conscious of my muscles—the way my arms look in a tank top, the way my thighs have rubbed together my entire life.
I’m working on it—in therapy, in the mirrors I walk by and catch my reflection, and with the clothes I choose to wear.
You look strong.
This color is working for you.
Oh, hello triceps.
Why is being kind to yourself so fucking hard?
I shake out my hair—my signature, almost awkward, mid-length brunette waves— and reply, “Why are you looking at me like that?” I can feel Mags' side eye before I confirm it on the screen.
She crosses her arms, sitting back. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just watching you nervously jitter about for your date.”
This again.
“It’s not a date. I haven’t seen him in almost two years. Can say, pretty confidently, we’re not dating.”
“You know what I mean,” she jokes.
I let out a slow breath and grin at my best friend. There’s no use arguing with her. Considering Tyson and I have never even kissed, or had a drunken hook up back in college, I know we’re just friends. We’ve just always been close. He’s always made me feel comfortable, like a close friend does.
My alarm vibrates, telling me my time is up and it’s time to go.
“Gotta go.” I grab my crossbody bag, puttingit on. “Love you to the moon.”
“Love you to Saturn,” Mags says, blowing me a kiss before the screen goes blank.
ThebriskOctoberairlicks my exposed skin. The sun is long gone and we’re in the type of fall where it’s still warm during the day but you need a jacket at night—hence the black leather jacket.
I can’t remember the last time I went out to dinner. I limit myself to takeout once a week, considering I’m a decent cook and can save tons of money by using my kitchen. I swing the door open,The Wild Sageemblazoned on the host stand, and start to scan the room for Tyson.
He must’ve been watching the door because as my eyes find the corner of the room, there he is–eyes on me. Tall. Dark. A beard I've never seen him in person with. While his fingers rub the strap on his watch, a grin takes over his lips, and it’s like a punch to the gut.
The air practically squeaks out of my lungs and I immediately start to cough. The hostess looks at me, those beautiful sympathetic eyes, as I cover my mouth and try to get it together. Why is coughing in public one of the most embarrassing things a person can do?
And because Tyson simply couldn’t wait, he’s in front of me in seconds. I barter with my body, promising one more annoyingly loud cough, beforeI cover my mouth and refuse it anymore. I’d rather quietly choke than cough again.
“Blair, you okay?”
Holding my breath, trying to force the coughing fit to stop, I keep a hand on my chest as I say, “Yes. Just choked on my own spit.”
Why the fuck did I say that?
Tyson laughs like he always does. He always tells me I'm his funny friend. Not sure if he means it or he’s being nice.
