Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
No luck. Even by evening, there’s nothing. Does that mean last night was just a one-night stand for her? Is that why she did the Irish goodbye thing?
Screw that.
I pull out my phone and text her.
No reply comes. Not that evening, not the next morning, and not at any point in the next few days. And with each passing hour, I get more and more irrationally upset.
What the fuck? I thought we had a really good connection, and the sex was out of this fucking world.
If any other woman had done this to me—though none ever have—I would think “good riddance” and move on. But for some reason, with Kendall, I can’t bring myself to do that. So I try calling her over the weekend, only to get her voicemail.
I debate hanging up—and again, with any other woman I would—but I feel compelled to say something.
“Hey, Kendall. I think I’m getting the message, but just in case you’re simply not a great communicator, I want to tell you that I had a great time and would like to see you again.”
There. The ball is officially in her ghostly court.
Right?
Or should I try something else?
Would I seem like a stalker if I did?
Fuck. I can’t believe a woman I’ve known for such a short time has me so wound up. I literally want to chase her down, throw her over my shoulder, bring her to my bedroom, and demand to know what the fuck went wrong. And after she explains—and it’d better be something good, like her grandmother died and she had to fly to a cell-phone-free resort in Timbuktu to bury her—I want to fuck her brains out and make her promise never to do this again.
Yeah, I’m officially losing it.
I think I need some perspective.
Taking my phone out, I sprawl on my couch and dial my sister, Jordan.
“Hey, bro,” she says, intentionally trying to sound like a fraternity douche.
“Hey, Jojo,” I say. “I need your expertise.”
“Oh? And you think calling me Jojo will make me want to help you?”
I sigh. I forgot she hates her childhood nickname. “I’m sorry, Jordan.”
“That’s better. What’s up?”
“I met this girl—” I start, only to be interrupted by a squeal.
“Tell me everything!”
So I tell her about the events that transpired before Kendall came to my place, ending on, “What happened next is the kind of thing where a gentleman doesn’t go into detail.”
“Eww. But if you got that far, what’s the problem?”
“She was gone in the morning.”
“Just poof and gone?” Jordan asks.
“Exactly. No note, no text, no voicemail. And she hasn’t replied to any of my texts or picked up the phone when I’ve called.”
“Huh.” I swear I can hear her scratching her head on the other end. “Usually, it’s the guy who does the ghosting after they get the sex, but—”
“Did some guy do that to you?” My fist clenches involuntarily.
“I was talking hypothetically,” she says, a little too quickly for my liking. “But yeah. You got ghosted.”
“But why?”
“Who knows? If I start to speculate, I might need to go into your performance during the icky part of the story.”
“I know for a fact that’s not it.”
“But—and prepare to have your mind blown—women can fake it. Also, and I repeat, eww.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Something must have happened. I need to get it sorted out. They have her info at the gym, so I’ll just—”
“Hell, no. That’s a stalker move. If you want my advice: forget her and find someone who is worthy of a guy as awesome as you.”
I force myself to ignore the peculiar tightness in my chest. “Maybe you’re right.” I shouldn’t let a girl I only spent one night with have this kind of hold over me. “Anyway, how are things with you?”
“Oh, same old. Spoke to Dad the other day and Mom the day prior, so there’s that.”
“Which was it: a guilt trip or ‘I’m disappointed in you?’”
“A little bit of both,” she says. “When did you speak to them last?”
“Their birthdays.”
“Lucky. Anything else up with you, besides the Kendall fiasco?”
“Nope, just like you said. Same old.”
“In that case, I’d better run,” she says. “Oh, and I must add: You’ve gotten wiser over the years.”
“How so?”
“You thought to call me.”
With that, she hangs up.
I wait a beat, battling the heavy feeling in my chest. Then I open my contacts, locate Kendall’s number, and delete it.
Jordan is right. It’s over.
I doubt I’ll ever see Kendall again.
Part Two
Present Day
Chapter 11
Kendall
“Yes, Tierre,” I say into my phone. “I told the dry-cleaning lady that her service was ‘merde.’” And then thanked my lucky stars she didn’t know French.
I suppress a sigh. Ever since Mr. Boss sniffed out that I want to be a designer myself, he’s dangled opportunities in front of me, but of course, said opportunities have come at a cost: I’m even more like an indentured servant these days.