I wake up to my iPhone vibrating next to my ear. I check the screen to see, first, it’s 8:07 a.m.

And second, that it’s my best friend from high school calling me. She lives in Texas so she’s two hours ahead and completely thoughtless when it comes to time zones, I swear.

I greet her with, “Livvy, why are you calling me this early?”

Please. I know why she’s calling me this early.

“Did you see Tuttle on Inside Football last night? He was totally talking about you. God, what a douche.”

As all loyal high school best friends are wont to do, she can’t forgive Jordan for our breakup, even though I was the one who broke up with him. In her eyes, he drove me to do it. You have to love a best friend like that, right?

We’re not as close as we used to be, only because she lives in Austin now with her fiancé and true high school sweetheart Dustin, but we talk as much as we can.

“I think he made all of it up,” I tell her.

Livvy pauses for a moment, like she has to consider what I just said. “Made it up? What are you talking about?”

“It makes for good TV.” I lower my voice in a terrible imitation of Jordan. “‘Oh yeah, that special girl from high school was my first real love, but we’re not together anymore. So I’m broken hearted and all that crap.’” My voice goes back to normal. “He’s so over me. You do realize this, right?”

“Maybe he’s not.”

“Please.” I make a noise and sit up in bed. My head hurts. Too much wine. And my stomach hurts. Too much Chinese food, which I ended up devouring after I watched Inside Football. Twice. “He makes millions, he’s world famous and he can have any woman he wants. He is not losing sleep over me.”

“You never know,” Livvy sing songs. “It would be what he deserves, wishing you two were still together.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He can want you, but he can never have you, because you are so done with that douchebag. He can go suck a bag of dicks.”

Funny how when we end up talking about high school stuff, Livvy immediately starts sounding like her high school self. We’re in our twenties now. We don’t go around saying suck a bag of dicks anymore.

Well. I never really did. That’s more Livvy’s style.

“He doesn’t want me,” I reassure her. And myself. “He probably has a different woman in his bed every night. He’s probably dated half the Kardashians.” There was a rumor he had a minor tryst with Kendall Jenner about a year ago, but who knows if that’s true? He takes one photo with her at a random event, and it’s splashed all over social media claiming they’re a couple.

“I wish he did. I wish he was begging for you to come back to him right now, just so you could have the satisfaction of telling him to kiss your ass,” Livvy says.

I think about him following me on Instagram last night. How he sent me that one-word message and nothing else. The tease. The jerk.

Should I tell Livvy?

Nah.

“I’m not out for vengeance,” I say. “I only wish him well.”

“You have a bigger heart than me,” Livvy mutters. “Dustin tells me my hate for Tuttle is ridiculous.”

“It sort of is,” I say gently. “Don’t forget, I broke up with him.”

“Because he practically made you!” she cries, forcing me to hold the phone away from my ear. She’s loud when she wants to be. “He never called you, he always canceled on you when you had plans. I don’t know how many times I had to comfort you while you cried over him bailing yet again.”

Everything she says is true. I cried a lot over Jordan when he went away to college. I let the distance and his success and my insecurities destroy our relationship.

“He didn’t make me end things. I didn’t give him the choice,” I tell her with a sigh.

“Well, whatever. I just hate seeing him on TV looking like such a smug bastard.”

“I’m surprised you even watched it.” Livvy’s always busy working. She’s a real estate agent in Austin and currently making a killing.

“Dustin told me we had to watch it,” Livvy says with an irritated sigh. “He got excited when he saw himself in that one class picture.”

“Ha, I was in that class too.”

“I was in Haskell’s class so no brief brush of fame for me. Dustin thinks he’s some sort of celebrity now.” She sounds amused. “He wishes he could go to one of Tuttle and Cannon’s games.”

Cannon Whittaker played football with Jordan in high school and was one of our friends. A big, sweet bear of a man now, he was traded onto Jordan’s team last season, and the media went wild with stories about them being reunited.

“I could, not that I’m going to,” I say. Their stadium isn’t too far from where I work. It’s almost like I went into sports medicine on purpose so maybe Jordan and I could cross paths someday.

Yeah. Right.

“Don’t ever chase that man. He sucks,” she says with total assuredness. “I have to go. I have an open house in forty minutes. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.” Livvy ends the call before I can say anything else.

I check my phone, leaving Instagram for last. Snapchat—I’m not into it as much I used to be, though I do still like watching people’s stories. Fast glimpse at Facebook to see my mother has posted a bunch of recipes that make me hungry. I click out when my stomach growls. Email inbox is full of nothing but junk sales stuff, so trepidation filling my veins, I open up Instagram to see…

I have a message.

And it’s from Jordan.

Sorry got distracted. Glad you followed me. It’s been a long time.

Oh my God, that’s it? Though I don’t know what I was expecting. A declaration of his undying love? That’s never going to happen.

I start typing my response.

It has been a long time. I hope you’re—

What else do I say? I hope you’re doing well? Doing shitty? Having the time of your life? Do you miss me? I miss him. I can admit that right now, early in the morning and all alone in my bed, I totally miss him.

Watching that show last night was absolute torture. I dreamed of Jordan, though it’s fuzzy and I can’t quite remember what happened. But he was there, like we belonged together, and it didn’t feel weird.

It felt…

Right.

I erase what I typed and redo it.

I hope you’re doing well.

Setting my phone on the table, I get out of my fold-out bed and go to the bathroom. Brush my teeth. Stare at my reflection, thankful my skin looks decent. I need to figure out what to wear on my date with Cade tonight. I want to look nice, but not like I’m trying too hard. There’s a fine line and I don’t want to cross it.

Sometimes I really hate this dating game bullshit.

I wander out into the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee with the Keurig my parents bought me two Christmases ago. I toast an everything bagel and spread too much cream cheese on top. For some reason, I’m extra clumsy this morning, and my foot slips across the floor, causing me to almost drop the plate, and everything from my everything bagel scatters across the tile.

After I sweep it up, cursing under my breath the entire time, I sit at my extremely small kitchen counter, take a bite out of my bagel, sip from my cup of coffee, and realize I am totally stalling on checking my phone, which is still sitting on my nightstand.

I dash back to the end table to get it.

And holy shit, he answered me.

Are you doing well, Mandy?

I wish he wouldn’t call me that. And I wish he wouldn’t ask loaded questions either, though I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way. I’m the one who’s being ridiculous. I’m the one who’s reading too much into this.

I’m great, I tell him after I eat half my bagel. Really busy with work.

What do you do?

I’m an assistant physical therapist at a place that specializes in sports medicine.

You’re here in the Bay Area, right? Where exactly do you work?

I chew on my lower lip, wondering if I should answer him. Why does he care?

Screw it.

Atlas Wellness Center.

He doesn’t answer me right away, so I finish the rest of my bagel and down the coffee, though I need no caffeine. I feel jittery enough. When he finally responds I can’t read it fast enough.

I know exactly where that’s at.

Of course he does.

We’ve had some professional athletes as patients, I tell him.

I hope you never see me in there. Jordan follows it with a winking face emoji.

He’s making a joke, something Jordan Tuttle doesn’t do very often. Yet I take it wrong. It feels like he’s trying to tell me he hopes he never sees me again, which is totally ridiculous. I’m reading too much into his response, I’m overthinking this entire situation.

I need to chill.

We start talking about the Inside Football episode, and he’s very modest, not making a big deal about it. I tell him Dustin feels famous because of the class photo they showed and he says Dustin should hit him up on IG. I say yeah, sure, but no way am I telling Livvy I had this conversation with Jordan. Not yet.

Not sure why, but I want to keep this secret all to myself.

It’s weird, but we chat off and on all day. While I do laundry, he sends me a DM. I send him one back and a few minutes or even an hour later, I receive a response. We talk about everything else but the fact that we broke up. We play catch up about people and places, talking like old friends, which I suppose we are.

But it’s finally near six and I still need to take a shower and curl my hair. Cade is picking me up at seven for our date and I haven’t even really picked out an outfit yet. As fun as this stroll down memory lane is, I need to get on it. Focus on the guy who’s interested in me now, not on the one from my past.

I’m afraid I have to go. It’s been nice talking to you.

I’m in the bathroom, shedding my clothes, the shower running when Jordan immediately replies. Hot date on a Saturday night?

Livvy would encourage me to say hell yes, motherfucker since that’s her style. But is that rude? Is that me rubbing it in his face?

No. it’s the truth.

Yeah.

That’s all I say. I jump in the shower before I say something I regret and I hurriedly run through my usual ritual. I don’t bother shaving my legs because hello, I’m not moving that fast with Cade. There will be no bare leg touching tonight. I don’t wash my hair because it curls better when it’s a little dirtier, and I’ve shut off the water and barely wrapped the towel around myself when I’m already checking my phone for a response.

Who’s the lucky guy? Got someone steady in your life?

My damp skin prickles at his words. For some reason, it feels like he spent a lot of time laboring over those two sentences. Should I be honest? Or make up some elaborate story about my hot sexy boyfriend who keeps me well satisfied in bed every night?

I’m not a liar, though. So I tell him the truth.

It’s a first date with a guy I work with.

He doesn’t respond for so long, I’m dry, lotioned up, and halfway dressed with my makeup done and my hair partially curled by the time I receive a reply.

Have fun.

My smile is smug at his words and my stomach bottoms out, but damn it, I will have fun.

Even if it kills me.