Page 49 of Still the One

“That I stopped opening my legs to you,” Mac deadpans and it’s hilarious and sad at the same time.

A tense hum is all I can manage, because even though we’re just talking on the phone, I can feel the potential of us, what Mac and I could be together, vibrate on this invisible line between us.

“She said I was a fool. So did Alan, although he used other words.”

What am I supposed to say to that? I stay silent because I have no say in this—and I said my piece to Mac the last time I saw her.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, instead.

“I’ve never been so happy with a loaf of bread,” Mac says.

“Good.” The conversation is losing steam. Probably because we’re about to reach the same dead end again.

“Is it okay that I called you?” Mac asks.

“It’s very okay.”

“Can I call you when I’m in Seattle?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Maybe we can FaceTime, because I’ll be a safe two and a half thousand miles away?”

“Sure. Let’s treat it as an experiment to see what happens when we communicate via screen.”

“See if it compels us to tear off our clothes and have FaceTime sex,” Mac says.

I’d very much like to go over to Mac’s apartment right now and tear off all my—and her—clothes.

“Sorry,” Mac says when I don’t immediately respond—she doesn’t know what I’m thinking. “Did I go too far?”

“No, um, it’s a date. I mean, not an actual date, of course.”

“A FaceTime date. A fully clothed FaceTime date.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Me too,” Mac says, and then we hang up.

Instead of analyzing what that call meant, I think it better to distract myself and make another loaf of bread.

Chapter 27

Mac

Jamie and I have been texting back and forth since I called her a couple of days ago. I’ve just arrived at my hotel in Seattle and I should prepare for a long day tomorrow, but all I can think of is FaceTiming her. As the days have gone by, I’ve started suffering from a brand-new affliction: elaborately fantasizing about Jamie Sullivan every moment of the day.

When she sent me the I-loaf-you bread, I simply had to respond. Things spiraled into this from there. I’m feeling a little unhinged, definitely frisky, but most of all, I can’t wait to hear her voice—and see her face, albeit on a tiny screen.

Even though that’s very unfair to Jamie, I’m not sure what my end game is. She put her cards on the table and I know what she wants: me. I can blame it on that loaf all I want—at her instigating contact when I wasn’t expecting it—but that would be very hypocritical. I’m not immune to what my friends tell me. I’m most certainly not immune to Jamie.

I take a quick shower, and I’m of half a mind to just slip on the hotel robe for our call—that’s how giddy I am—but that would definitely be out of line. I put on regular clothes, grab my phone, and tap the FaceTime icon.

“Hey.” For a moment, all I see are Jamie’s bangs and her gorgeous bedroom eyes. “There you are,” she says.

“And you.” Sometimes, like earlier on the plane when Jamie occupied all my thoughts, I think Leila might be right. That I’m a fool to squander a love like this. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” Jamie sounds more serious than she did on our last call. Maybe because we can see each other—or maybe because I didn’t give her much choice last time. “You?”

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