I check the screen, expecting to see a message from Matt. He’s been texting me every evening. I’d say he’s just checking in, but the conversations have been getting longer and more personal day by day. The last few nights we’ve ended up on the phone, exchanging flirty banter until one of us finally gives in to sleep.
But the message isn’t from Matt. It’s from his assistant. I saved James’ info when he was helping me with the field trip forms, but haven’t heard from him since.
James:Mr. Acevedo is feeling unwell and regretfully has to cancel your date for this evening. He will call to reschedule once he’s back on his feet.
My heart sinks, plummeting to the churning-acid depths of my stomach. Unwell? What kind of horrible disease crops up an hour before a date and precludes a man from even texting for himself?
Me:I hope it’s nothing serious…
James:Not at all. I’m sure Mr. Acevedo will be on the mend soon.
Me:Thanks for letting me know.
And just like that, I get the brush off. Tears sting at the corner of my eyes, but I swipe them away hastily. Not today, Satan. I pick up my phone and hit Olive’s name from my favorites list. She answers on the second ring, jumping in without so much as a greeting.
“You better not be having second thoughts about your date. That man has bent over backwards—”
“It’s not me,” I interrupt my best friend’s tirade. Olive has gone from anti-dating to enthusiastically in favor of Matt. I’d question where her loyalties lie, but I know her too well to second-guess her. “It’s Matt. His assistant just canceled.”
“His assistant?” Her retort is nothing short of shrill. “Please tell me that’s a bad joke.”
“Nope,” I tell her, trying to sound aloof. Admitting that this hurts as much as it does is unthinkable. “But it doesn’t matter.”It totally does.“I really don’t care.”I’m crushed.
Luckily, Olive speaks Best Friend fluently. “I’m on my way. Hold tight.”
Olive busts down my apartment door ten minutes later. She must have set a new land-speed record getting here, and thank the lord she did, because I’m already a quarter of the way through a pint of store-brand rocky road.
“What in god’s name are you eating?” she asks.
“Ice cream,” I say around a frozen tongue.
“That’s not ice cream. Spit it out.” She digs in the bag hanging from her forearm and pulls out a white pint with the Olive Branch Bakery logo. “Thisis ice cream. Made fresh from wine country milk.”
She grabs the imposter dairy and chucks it toward my trash can, completely missing and hitting the side of my fridge. Melted splatters of chocolate ice cream fly everywhere, and I give her an exasperated look. “I’ll clean that up later,” she says with a wince, handing me the new carton and plopping down on the couch next to me.
“Men suck, I have always said this,” Olive says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“Yeah,” I laugh half-heartedly. “I mean, couldn’t he have at least canceled our date himself? I just don’t get it,” I moan. “I hate that he had his assistant give me the brush off.”
“That’s next level shitty,” Olive agrees. “But are you sure he’s giving you the brush off? Maybe he’s really sick.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “Or maybe he decided I’m not worth the trouble.”
“Hell, no.” Olive flicks my arm with her fingertip.
“Ow,” I say, looking at her with wide eyes.
“No one talks about my best friend like that,” she says, pointing a finger in my face. I snap my teeth at her finger, threatening to bite it, but she just laughs and boops me on the nose.
“Feisty.”
“Yeah, well. I spent like an hour and a half getting ready, just for him to blow me off. I’m feeling a little salty.”
Olive nods sagely as she grabs a spoon and digs into the ice cream. “So, go give him a piece of your mind. By your own account, he’s a workaholic, right?”
I nod. “I don’t know about workaholic, but yeah. He works long hours.”
“Well, if he really was blowing you off, I bet ten bucks you could still catch him at the office.”