“You do what every modern girl does: you send him a passive aggressive text.”

“Does it have to be passive aggressive? Why can’t I just say what’s on my mind?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“That I…wish it had been him from the start, because I think he’s great, and if he hadn’t been so immature, I would…”

Claire waits while I think then prods, “You would…?” encouraging me to finish my sentence.

“That’s it. That’s all I have.”

“Sounds like a good start to me. Now go get him, tiger—then call me back.” The last of her Bloody Mary gets chugged and she sets the glass down on her kitchen counter with a thud. “Oh, and Miranda?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be a pussy this time.”

“What? When am I ever a pu—”

—ssy.

The line goes dead.

* * *

Me: You know what, jerk—I’ve got more to say to you.

Delete. Too confrontational out of the gate. He’ll never reply to that.

Me: Hey Noah. I need to talk to you.

Delete. Guys hate when girls say they ‘need to talk.’

Me: Yo.

Delete. What am I? One of his guy friends? No.

I try one more time.

Me: Hey Noah. I’ve been thinking about our meeting all afternoon and would like to apologize for reacting the way I did. And for leaving without hearing you out.

I stare at those words, not sure what I’m actually expecting him to say, if he decides to reply at all. I know he wants those baseball cards, so if he doesn’t respond, I’ll know I’ve ruined it—for him and for me.

I go through my bedtime routine, nerves vibrating through my body, busying myself with washing my face, putting on moisturizer and clean pajamas, the entire time listening for that familiar ping from my text notifications.

Why am I so nervous? He’s buying baseball cards from me, that is all!

I pull my long hair into a ponytail. Take it out again. Topknot. Down again. Ugh!

Tossing the rubber band on the counter, I stalk back to the bedside table and check my phone, turning it to the side to see if the mute is on.

It’s not.

Dammit! It’s been 18 minutes—who takes that long to respond to a text message? Monsters, that’s who!

I stalk back to the bathroom and pull my hair back.

Ping!

Ever so casually, so as not to appear overly anxious, I count to 10. Walk into my closet and stand there, staring up at my shoes. Pull out a pair of jeans and refold them.

Take my ponytail out. Brush my hair.

Go to the toilet, pull down my bottoms, and sit, trying to pee. When that doesn’t work, I stand back up and look around the bathroom, deciding any more loitering is pointless.

I mean, I’m home alone—who am I going through this whole song and dance for?

Click off the light and go to stand next to the bed, palming my phone.

Before I open his message—assuming it’s him—I quickly give my social media a brief glance before allowing myself to finally tap on the little green messages icon at the bottom of my phone screen.

Noah: Glad to hear from you. Can you talk?

What does he mean by talk? Talk talk or text talk? I hope he explains more once I respond.

Me: Yes?

Noah: I meant is it okay for me to call?

Shit. He wants to call me? On the phone? Who even does that anymore?! This is an outrage! I won’t even pick up when my grandmother calls unless she calls twice in a row!

If you need to get ahold of me, text.

If it’s an emergency—still text.

Video chatting is fine, and easy. I can move the phone around while I continue about my business, but for some reason, it seems more involved having to listen to someone on the other line rather than watch them on a video call.

My pits begin to sweat. I won’t lie—this whole thing makes me twitchy and I lose steam. Earlier while I was on the phone with Claire, she got me all worked up and I knew what I wanted to say, how I wanted to say it—I was ready! Then he goes and throws this wrench in my plan by wanting to speak to me!

There is nothing I can say to him except: Sure.

I busy myself, fluffing my pillow on the bed, trying to be cool, so my discomfort doesn’t come through in my voice when I answer the phone.

“Hey,” I say, practicing, going so far as to lean against my nightstand, one hand propped there as if I’m at a bar using a pick-up line. “What’s up?”

Lord, I sound like Joey from Friends. How you doin’?

I clear my throat. “Miranda speaking.” Way too formal considering it’s bedtime; well, it is for me anyway. Maybe he’s a night owl.

I try again. “Hi.” Blah, why is this so hard!

I’m chastising myself when the phone rings, his name popping up on my screen since I programmed his number in—because right now, he’s the only one forking over five figures for vintage sports memorabilia. Everyone else who’s contacted me has either tried to lowball or hasn’t followed through and I don’t have time to deal with anyone who isn’t serious.