Hello.
Too boring. Let’s try again.
What’s up?
Who am I, a fuck boy? I mean I am. I was. I might be. Am I reformed?
Hey, Gabi, this is Maddox.
The only way I’m sending this is if my next message is going to ask about her car’s extended warranty.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you…
Well that’s creepy. True. But creepy.
I throw my phone down on the couch, pinching the bridge of my nose because for the life of me I can’t figure out what to text Gabi.
Because it has to be perfect.
When Linc sent me the text with her contact, I thought he was playing some sort of fucked-up joke on me. Which would’ve been cruel. I asked him twenty times if it was for real or not—and texted Ainsley because the woman would never lie. I only believed him after I confirmed with her.
But that has only led me to staring at my phone for the past hour trying to figure out what to say to the woman who’s been keeping me up at night. Which is very much not like me. I’ve been with women. Plenty of them. I’ve had hot nights. I’ve had crazy ones where the location of the exploits might not have been the most private. I’ve been with women that some men would give an appendage to be with. Yet, one night with Gabi has put me under some sort of a spell. It’s like I’ve been reverse dickmatized.
Yes, that has to be why I’m picking my phone back up, but staring at it like it’s a foreign object. Never in my twenty-four years have I ever been nervous to approach a woman. I asked out my first girlfriend when I was six years old. She was in third grade and road my bus. She always had the prettiest bows in her hair, so I told her that. Next thing I knew we were holding hands every day and I was carrying her books to class.
Wait! Is that where my love for older women started? I should talk to the team therapist about that…
Needless to say from that first relationship with Bella Summers until this very moment, I’ve always been the guy to step up and ask a woman out. Or for her number or socials. Send the first message without that bullshit three-day rule. Rejection? Rejection is scared of me.
Until now.
“What is wrong with me?” I say out loud as I grip my phone tight in my hand. “At the end of the day, she’s just a woman. But she’s not. She’s… fuck! I’ve never not had words. Am I ina trance? Is this a pussy trance? No. It can’t be because I was hypnotized when she walked on stage. Why am I a bumbling idiot right now?”
I let out a deep breath, doing my best to collect myself. “I’m just a guy. She’s just a girl. I’m going to send her a message to see if she’d maybe want to go to get coffee. Or marry me.”
Am I being overdramatic? Possibly. Because yes, I know it’s one text message. It’s not the actual make or break for whatever we’re going to be, but it’s important. This moment right here is chapter two in our story. And considering I didn’t think there was going to be a second, I’m not going to take the chance of sending some dumbass text with a dumbass opening line. No. When she opens my text from an unknown number, I want her belly to flip. I want her heart to flutter. I want her to instantly be transported back to that night in Vegas.
“That’s it!” I scream, sitting up on my couch ready to type out what came to my mind. Except that when I look at my screen, things are not what they should be.
There should be no messages sent. And yet, there is one.
And it’s not a text.
It’s a voice memo.
And it says delivered.
“Fuck fuck fuck…” I murmur, jumping up from the couch and starting to pace around my living room. “What the fuck did I say?”
Except I know what I said. I was talking to myself about how I’m already basically in love and would marry a woman I’ve spent one night with. I used the words “pussy trance” which I don’t even think is a real phrase.
“Fuck!” I yell again, my fingers flying over the phone, wondering if I can unsend a voice memo.
Can you? I honestly have no fucking clue, but that doesn’t stop me from quickly trying to Google “I’m a dumbass and sent avoice memo to a woman. Help me undo it.” Unfortunately, that’s not giving me the best search results.
Just when I think I’ve found a helpful article, my stomach drops when I see a return message.
One from a contact labeled “Future Wife.”
