“But…that night in Vegas felt real. Like we both dropped the outer layer we coat ourselves with on a daily basis.” I shook my head. “I don’t trust my own judgment with men anymore.”
“Honey, what’s the harm in giving him a call? Maybe it’ll turn out that night was a fluke and neither of you are feeling it anymore. Or maybe it wasn’t a fluke and youdohave something real. Either way, you’ll know, and you won’t have to torment yourself over it anymore. Plus…” —she laid her hand on mine— “it’s kind of a dick move not to call him.”
“You’re spouting facts.” I felt like the biggest dick alive for not calling. Truly.
She patted her lips with her napkin before folding her hands in her lap. Her impeccable posture and exquisite manners never failed to impress me. We’d been raised in the same area, had gone to the same school, yet she turned out like some upper-crust trust-fund baby with a wild, rebel edge, and I turned out tomboyish and scruffy.
She and Gabriel had twin two-year-olds who were already just as well-mannered and polite. One of them, Marisol, had come up to me with her empty sippy cup, and asked, “Excuse me, may I have more milk, please?” I knew next to nothing about babies, but I did know that wasn’t quite normal.
“So, you’re going to call him?” She arched her brow imperiously.
“Is texting okay?” Yes, I was a coward. That had been established.
Jenna shook her head and threw up her hands, exasperated by my lack of couth.
In my bunk, as we soared down a highway somewhere in the Midwest, I formulated the text I’d send Mo.
Hey, what’s up, buddy?
No. Buddy? Come on, Michaela.
I’ve missed you, and I think about that night so often, I’m probably going to be fired.
Too strong. Way too much.
I decided to go somewhere in between lighthearted and honest. And threw a smiley face emoji in for good measure.
Me:Missed me? :) I’ve missed you…
The text sat there unread for a minute, then two. I could almost hear the seconds ticking by in my head. Finally, the bubbles below my text started moving, indicating he was typing a response. My stomach fluttered so much, I grew nauseous.
He responded, and I wished like hell he hadn’t. Throwing my phone down, I darted for the bathroom, never even getting the sliding door closed before I retched into the miniature tour bus toilet. I threw up so much, and with such force, my knees gave out and I collapsed on the floor. Someone held my hair back, and someone else handed me a cup of water. Murmurs of comfort and worry filtered in.
He doesn’t want me.
I waited too long.
That night wasn’t real.
My husband doesn’t want me.
The next day, I asked Jenna for the name of a lawyer.