What the hell did that even mean?
I’d spent enough time as a social pariah, and I wasn’t going back. I couldn’t deal with public hatred again—Icouldn’t.
But my response had been premature.
As it turned out, the public’s opinion on me had changed, seemingly overnight.
At lunch, when I told Ellie I’d said no to a second date with Connor, she opened her browser and proceeded to show me a handful of articles on how “cute” we were.
The photo of him giving me a piggyback ride, both of us positively glowing with mirth.
The clip of him saying he’d light a dessert on fire to give me fireworks.
Dark footage of us singing karaoke together, laughing our asses off as some rando we hadn’t even noticed recorded us.
I wanted to cry as I took it all in because what the hell was happening?
How was this possible?
Ihad rejectedhim? What in God’s name had I been thinking? I’d thrown away a shot at something with him,all because I was scared of internet trolls?
On top of that, wewerea little cute, dammit.
It was beyond depressing, and “regret” wasn’t a strong enoughword to capture the way I felt about my poor decision. It didn’t help that—minus all the photographers—our first date had been amazing, and my appreciation for Connor spiked every time I thought about it.
Now when I saw him in commercials, I knew just how funny he was in real life and how his blue eyes crinkled in an adorable way when he smiled. And I couldn’t stop myself from rewatching Coyote games my dad had saved, just so I could watch Connor play.
The way he sprinted down the field, leapt into the air to catch the ball, his physicality with other players; dear Lord, there was justsomethingabout those impractical-in-the-real-world athletic abilities that made me a simpering fool.
I spent the entire weekend stuck in this weird hyperfangirl place until he texted me out of the blue.
I was watchingMonday Night Footballwith my brothers when my phone buzzed.
Connor:That was a shit call.
I almost hurled my phone in shock. I didn’t know why he was texting me—Connor is texting me holy shit—but after I nearly fell off the couch scrambling to clutch my phone, I processed his words and replied:TOTALLY. It wasn’t even close.
I wondered how an NFL player watched games. Was he sitting at home, like me, taking in a game and inhaling potato chips at an unhealthy pace, or was he studying the plays, taking notes, and viewing it through a professional lens?
Connor:I found AirPods under my seat—are they yours?
So that’s where they were. I’d been driving myself crazy looking for them, because the quiet sounds of other people’s keyboards clicking at work had been driving me insane. I needed music while I worked and my office waswaytoo silent for sanity.
Me:YES! You might’ve just saved my co-worker’s life because the sound of his gum chewing was making me very murdery.
Connor:Want to meet at Fawkes Alley in the morning to hand off the pods and ensure you don’t do life? You seem WAY too soft for the big house.
Oh my God. Was this my second chance, an opportunity to fix what I’d screwed up? To see him and maybe somehow get him to ask me out again?
No—that wasn’t possible. That’d be way too good to be true.
Right?
But maybe…?
I mean, Fawkes Alleywasmy favorite coffee shop.
I texted:That would be great. And for the record, I think I could hold my own in the brig.
