Page 55 of The End of Summer

Once they arrived and set up the food, the girls gorged themselves on something called the Sloppy Chopstick, which is a sloppy joe made with brisket, grilled pineapple and Asian coleslaw. It’s a huge sandwich that smells incredible but ended up all over the ladies as well as the floor. They should have ordered bachelorette bibs to accompany their fine dining choice. In fact, so much barbecue sauce and slaw wound up anywhere but on plates or in mouths that the girls and I stayed late to mop, which is something we usually don’t do – but we wanted to make sure we covered all our bases since we had no idea when Arrow would return from her sudden sojourn to Tucson.

I considered trying to call Arrow again after we were done cleaning, but when I checked my phone, I saw that I missed a call from Cherry during the party. I decided not to return her call so late at night since she was probably settling in at home after being discharged from the hospital. Instead, I set a reminder in my phone to try her the next day.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted, but as I walked down the hallway towards my apartmentdoor, I couldn’t help but feel butterflies in my stomach. I half expected Brady to pop out from behind his door as I passed by. He didn’t, though, which was probably for the best since I didn’t want to go to the beach the following morning looking like a zombie.

But the little note taped to my door with his phone number on it was a pretty sweet surprise.

Now, I fumble with the keys, unlock the door and head inside, where I strip off my work clothes and pull on a pair of comfy sweats and a fresh tank top. I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I plug my phone in and set it on my nightstand on top of the note, testing every ounce of restraint I’ve got. I close my eyes, but all I can see is Brady’s face.

Nope. I’m not that strong.

I punch in the numbers and save Brady’s info in my phone. Then, I let my thumbs fly across the flat panel keyboard on the screen.

Hey there. Thanks for your number. Figured you should have mine, too. Hope I’m not waking you.

I hit send, then realize I omitted an important piece of information.It’s Gretchen, btw. Not sure if you tape your number to lots of doors on the reg, but figured I should probably clarify just in case.??

I see three dots appear. My heart begins to race, despite my body’s exhaustion.

I heard you come in. Glad you’re home safe. Looking forward to our date tomorrow.??

I smile. My stomach twists up like a pretzel. I’m not sure how to respond, so my thumbs just hover over the screen.The dots come up again, and then this message pops up:And, no. You’re the only person whose door I’m leaving my number on.

Good,I type. Then, I stop before hitting send. I’m tempted to say something flirty but I don’t want to come off as thirsty. I delete the word, replace it withWell, that’s nice. I hope you had a nice rest of your day.That feels more tame, but it’s late, and I’m tired, and my conversational skills are maybe not the best at this exact moment.

I’m sorry for leaving earlier,he writes.I would’ve liked to hang out longer and finish our dance.??

My lips pucker together. This could very easily become a late nightU up?text exchange, but I consciously summon up all of my will power. If Brady has dated Miranda, who strikes me as a wild child, maybe that’s what he’s used to. But I’m not that girl. I mean, sure, mybodywould like me to be that girl, but… he lives right next door, at least for now. The part of my brain that has any common sense at all knows that I’d like to be in a committed relationship with Brady before I hop in the sack with him. Or, at the very least, I should at least go on a date with him first.

Me too. But it’s okay. My day sort of unraveled after that anyway, so the timing was probably not the best,I type.

Everything okay?he responds.

Yeah. Arrow went on a sort of impromptu vacation and left me in charge. It was fine, just unexpected.

Gotcha. Well, hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

I’m counting on it,I reply.

Three more dots appear, then stop, then start again.10am good?

Perfect. Looking forward to it,I write back.

Quick question. Are you in bed already?

My heart skips a beat.I am. Why do you ask?

The stop and go of the dots on the screen begins again.I was going to offer you some ice cream. It always makes me feel better when I have a shitty day. I’ve got cookies and cream and rocky road. Happy to share, if you want in. But if you’re too tired, I totally understand. No pressure at all.

Who am I kidding? It’s adorable and sweet, and I’m grinning like a fool.Ice cream sounds amazing, actually.I pause, overthinking, as usual.But, just making sure, this isn’t code for something else? Like, when you say cookies and cream you don’t actually mean condoms and lube?I type, then think better of it. I’m about to delete that last part when Zoloft jumps on the bed hungry for snuggles, and the phone fumbles out of my hand onto the mattress. As I pick it back up, I accidentally hit send. I mean, ofcourseI do.

Classic Gretchen.

I can hear his laughter through the condo wall.

Nope. Actual ice cream. Be right there.

I climb out of bed, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror – no makeup, huge sweatpants, a tank top without a bra – I feel like a walking advertisement for freshman year of college. I consider putting on something else but there’s a knock.Here goes nothing,I tell myself. I pull open the door and my pulse thumps in my ears when I see him standing there, a pint of ice cream in either hand, a grin that brightens as I invite him in.

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