Page 30 of One Hotlanta Night
I shake my head as her words begin to sink in.
“Sometimes things happen even when you aren’t ready for them, and you are allowed to experience something new. And you areallowedto go have fun, dammit.” She squeezes my fingers as she continues, “I think you know what your gut is telling you and you’re fighting it. And I think you need to give yourself permission to see where this takes you. I’ve got a good feeling about this one, chica.” She taps her forehead.
And this is why I love Claire so much. No one else has ever shown me such care while also making me face the hard truths. She never batted an eye at the guys I went out with, only checking in to make sure I was okay afterward. She gave me an opportunity with her restaurant to pick up the pieces and figure myself out when I didn't even know what I was doing. She’s even brushed my hair for me when it hurts too much to lift myarms, telling me jokes to help distract from the pain. I know she wouldn’t tell me anything unless she had my best interests at heart. And she doesn’t sugarcoat anything; when I've needed a kick in the ass, she’s been the one to give it to me.
So I do trust her when she continues. “Viv, beating yourself up has never helped you, and you owe it to yourself to allow the idea of happiness. I think you had let go of Trent long before he cheated on you. And that’s okay because he was a dipwad anyway,” she says with a grin. “But just because you feel not enough time has passed for you to get into the dating scene again doesn’t mean you close your eyes to what’s out there. If you like this guy and you have a good feeling about him, then just go for it. Worst case scenario is that you get a bad dinner out of it.”
She smirks and so do I, recalling some of the disastrous dates I’ve been on, where I came home and told her about the boring guys rambling on and on before making a play to get in my pants. But at least I got a free meal out of it. “Good conversation or good sex, never both, remember?”
“Seriously,” she says. “I think you should give this a chance. You can always lose his number later.”
“Dang, girl, you’re worse than I am!” I reach for a dish towel to throw at Claire but she ducks just in time.
And then my phone rings. We both freeze.
It keeps ringing, and I look at my Nokia display. I don’t recognize the number.
“Answer it!” Claire whispers as if the caller can hear us.
“No!” I whisper back.
It’s Saturday morning, and it’s not Trent’s number or my mom’s. I delete guys after I’m done with them, so it’s not like I’ve got a long roster. No way can it be Michael.
Isn’t there some sort of code not to call for three days?
The phone trills two more times. Claire and I keep staring at it like it’s a bomb about to go off. Thirty seconds pass and we both jump when the chime sounds indicating there’s a new voicemail.
I drag my eyes from the phone to Claire’s face.
“Are you checking that or am I?” she asks me. I know she’ll do it if I ask her to.
“I–I’ll get it.Later.” I hold up a hand at her protestations. Raelynn chooses that moment to holler “Mommm-eee!” and Claire stands up to tend to her daughter.
“Don’t forget.” She wags a finger at me.
“I won’t.”
“I mean about all of it. About what I said, missy,” she admonishes.
I don’t listen to the message until much later, when I’m on my way home from my shift. I avoided even looking at my phone while I got ready, instead choosing to let the anticipation consume me, going back and forth about whether or not I should stick to my guns. Once I got to work, we were slammed the minute I arrived until we closed, so I couldn’t have checked my messages even if I’d wanted to. Sitting in my locked car in The Pork Belly parking lot, I look at the phone in my hand, holding it gingerly like it might shatter if I squeeze too hard.
Breathing deep to still the jitters and anxiety swirling in my gut, I enter my voicemail passcode.
“Vivian, hey there, hermosa…”
The butterflies in my chest go into full migration mode at the timbre of his voice, my pulse racing.
“I wanted to check in with you and see how you’re doing this morning.” He pauses, and I don’t think he rehearsed what he was going to say. Like he didn’t think he’d be leaving a message. I’m torn between regretting not picking up and also the comfort of having his recorded voice to listen to whenever I want. After what sounds like a blown out breath, he continues, his voice husky.
“Listen, mi amor, I’d really like to see you again. Soon.Real soon, I mean. Last night was…” He trails off for a moment as though gathering his thoughts. “Everything.” It’s a whisper.
It’s a promise.
My heart stills as a warm wave of contentment washes over me. Tingles run from my head to my toes, and I feel like I’ve just been given the best hug.
“Call me, mi amor. Please.” He rattles off his number. “I can’t wait to see you again.” The phone beeps, asking if I want to save, delete, or listen to the message again. As I sit there stunned, the commands repeat a second time, startling me, my fingers hitting buttons randomly.
“Your message has been deleted.”
