“It was a love-hate relationship,” Zev says.
“Fran calls it the Romeo and Juliet effect,” Callum says.
“Of course she does,” Roman says, stifling a laugh.
“It’s not that.” I toss off my shirt; it’s too sweaty to sit in any longer. “It’s the fact that I’ve gotten to know the girl. She’s interesting. And I think it would be fun to get to know her better.”
Callum laughs and grabs a bottle of shampoo from his locker. “Yeah, you just described the reasons a man wants to date a woman.”
“I described friends. Friends hang out. But Maggie has some issues with that.”
The others only snicker at me.
“None of you are helpful, you know that?” I stand, stretch, and peer at the three of them.
Before I can walk away, Roman sets a hand on my arm. “Sorry. Just call her. It’s not a big deal.”
“I know that.” I roll my shoulders with the lie. My nerves are acting up. The guys are making more out of all this than they should. So are my nerves. But I grin. Vovó always said my smile melted away anything wrong with the world. “I’m not worried about it.”
Maybe I should have worriedabout it.
Me: What do you mean you have a date?
I stroke the coat of my nameless gray kitten. I’m still referring to her as Fur Ball most of the time. She’s curled herself into a ball right on my lap, and I have to admit, it’s helping in this moment.
Maggie: Fran said it was a couples party. When I told her I wasn’t seeing anyone, she said I just needed a date.
Maggie: So, I got a date.
My mouth goes dry. I sit up on my couch and try to remember how to play it cool. It used to be second nature. What’s happening to me?
Me: Perfect. I was worried.
Maggie: Worried?
Me: Just making sure you didn’t need help finding one.
Me: It’s not the mouse man, is it?
She deserves so much more than that little man.
Maggie: Do you honestly think I can’t get a date? You were actually concerned?
Me: Does that mean it is the Mouse Man?
Maggie: LUCCA. That was a blind date. One I didn’t even ask to go on, okay? Why do you keep going back to him? I’ll say it one more time: NOT MY TYPE.
Me: Again, you mention a type without much context. Your type is?
Me: As a friend, I should know. I could come across the perfect man for you and not even realize it.
Maggie: My type is: Not Reggie.
Me: That’s pretty broad.
Maggie: And I have no issues getting dates. You don’t have to worry about me.
The feline in my lap rises—as if, somehow, I’ve offended her, too, with this conversation. She stretches her legs, then walks across the couch opposite where I sit and lies back down. I squeeze my hand into a fist. She’s bringing a date. Maggie won’t be alone.
