Chapter 9
Duffy
It was a weird thing, becoming slightly obsessed with the guy you rejected.
But I couldn’t help it.
Because for starters, he’d asked me out for a second date.
A second fricking date.
I didn’t get those a lot.
And I wasn’t being melodramatic; it was simply a fact.
Which was why the reality that he’d called to ask me out again, in and of itself, was truly astounding.
But then, on top of that unreal moment, I panicked and totally ruined everything by saying no, leaving me nothing to do but creepily stalk him on the internet and daydream about a scenario where I hadn’t “No, thank you’d” him.
God, I am so stupid.
But in my defense, it was the internet’s fault.
Because the results of a quick search earlier this morning had sent me into a panic, the wounds left by Carl still too fresh.
The Getty images of me and Connor getting out of the car, him looking like a god while I squinted next to him like I was a bear coming out of hibernation, blinded by the bright lights, were bad enough, but I’d been a fool and had taken a glimpse at a few comments that followed the article and nope—I wasn’t going back there.
Beauty and the bust.
What the hell did that even mean?
I’d spent enough time as a social pariah, and I wasn’t going back. I couldn’t deal with public hatred again—I couldn’t.
But my response had been premature.
As it turned out, the public’s opinion on me had changed, seemingly overnight.
At lunch, when I told Ellie I’d said no to a second date with Connor, she opened her browser and proceeded to show me a handful of articles on how “cute” we were.
The photo of him giving me a piggyback ride, both of us positively glowing with mirth.
The clip of him saying he’d light a dessert on fire to give me fireworks.
Dark footage of us singing karaoke together, laughing our asses off as some rando we hadn’t even noticed recorded us.
I wanted to cry as I took it all in because what the hell was happening?
How was this possible?
I had rejected him? What in God’s name had I been thinking? I’d thrown away a shot at something with him, all because I was scared of internet trolls?
On top of that, we were a little cute, dammit.
It was beyond depressing, and “regret” wasn’t a strong enough word to capture the way I felt about my poor decision. It didn’t help that—minus all the photographers—our first date had been amazing, and my appreciation for Connor spiked every time I thought about it.
Now when I saw him in commercials, I knew just how funny he was in real life and how his blue eyes crinkled in an adorable way when he smiled. And I couldn’t stop myself from rewatching Coyote games my dad had saved, just so I could watch Connor play.
The way he sprinted down the field, leapt into the air to catch the ball, his physicality with other players; dear Lord, there was just something about those impractical-in-the-real-world athletic abilities that made me a simpering fool.
I spent the entire weekend stuck in this weird hyperfangirl place until he texted me out of the blue.
I was watching Monday Night Football with my brothers when my phone buzzed.
Connor: That was a shit call.
I almost hurled my phone in shock. I didn’t know why he was texting me—Connor is texting me holy shit—but after I nearly fell off the couch scrambling to clutch my phone, I processed his words and replied: TOTALLY. It wasn’t even close.
I wondered how an NFL player watched games. Was he sitting at home, like me, taking in a game and inhaling potato chips at an unhealthy pace, or was he studying the plays, taking notes, and viewing it through a professional lens?
Connor: I found AirPods under my seat—are they yours?
So that’s where they were. I’d been driving myself crazy looking for them, because the quiet sounds of other people’s keyboards clicking at work had been driving me insane. I needed music while I worked and my office was way too silent for sanity.
Me: YES! You might’ve just saved my co-worker’s life because the sound of his gum chewing was making me very murdery.
Connor: Want to meet at Fawkes Alley in the morning to hand off the pods and ensure you don’t do life? You seem WAY too soft for the big house.
Oh my God. Was this my second chance, an opportunity to fix what I’d screwed up? To see him and maybe somehow get him to ask me out again?
No—that wasn’t possible. That’d be way too good to be true.
Right?
But maybe…?
I mean, Fawkes Alley was my favorite coffee shop.
I texted: That would be great. And for the record, I think I could hold my own in the brig.
Connor: Isn’t the “brig” a military prison?
I rolled my eyes and bit my lip to keep from smiling too hard. Potatoe, po-tah-toe. What time?
We made plans to meet at the coffee shop that I visited daily because it was close to my office, which was apparently also quite close to his apartment. I wasn’t going to fixate on that little morsel of information, not now, because I didn’t have the luxury of time.
I needed to find something cute to wear to work in the morning, something that would make me irresistible when Connor handed off my earphones.
Thankfully, a quick text to Ellie solved all my problems. She immediately FaceTimed me.
“Take me to your closet,” she said, and after twenty minutes of her insulting my lack of taste, she found a pairing that she liked.
“But listen,” she said with a scowl as I laid the clothes out on my bed like I was a middle schooler. “Be bold tomorrow morning. Don’t wait for him to ask you out.”
“I won’t,” I said, even though I knew I would.
In no scenario would I ever have the courage to ask out an NFL god.
But by the time I went to bed, I felt marginally confident in what I had planned style-wise. As long as I could keep myself from falling down or saying something ridiculous, I felt pretty good.
—
The following morning, however, when I was five minutes from walking out the door, my father decided to ruin that little bit of confidence.
“Hey, I need you to drop off Dale on your way to work,” he said.
“What?” I set my mug in the sink as he opened the fridge and took out the orange juice.
“Dale needs an adjustment. You gotta drop him at the chiro on your way in.”
My dad was so incredibly obsessed with his cat that he took him to the pet chiropractor once a month because he was convinced Dale needed adjustments.
I usually didn’t mind helping out, but that was not going to fit into my plans for the morning.
I’d literally spent an hour on makeup, which seemed like the sum total of what I’d spent on makeup my entire life, so I wasn’t going to screw that up by getting sweaty wrestling with Dale.
“I can’t today, sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve got—”
“You can today and you will,” he replied, his eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve got a water conference in Mankato, so I’m going in the other direction.”
My dad worked for the city, and a big part of his job had to do with water.
I’d never really paid enough attention to understand it other than the fact that he loved to share disgusting little facts about water, like how he would never go in a hotel hot tub because the foam on top of the bubbles was “butt juice.”
“Dad, I’ve got an appointment before work—we’re going to have to reschedule.”
“You gotta do this for me, Duff,” he said, unscrewing the juice lid. “You throw him in the backpack and it takes five minutes to drop him off, tops. It’s right by your work, come on.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh. That’s fine,” he said slowly. “I’ll just call in and blow off the conference. I wasn’t looking forward to the windshield time, anyway.”
He was being pouty, but I also knew my stubborn father would do it. He would completely miss a conference that the city had paid money to send him to because Dale needed an adjustment.
But after all the time my dad took off after my mom died, he didn’t need to miss any more work. He had a pension, but I didn’t feel like my dad would know what to do with himself if he ever retired.
“Fine,” I said, gritting my teeth and trying to be a good daughter when I wanted to whine. “But can you help me get his stuff together?”
Getting that cat into the catpack was not an easy task, at least not for me.
“I gotta walk out the door right now, kid,” he said. “The backpack is by the coats, you can handle it.”
My dad had one of those backpacks with the plexiglass window in the back so the cat could ride around and see the world. My father used it when he took the cat to the vet because he thought Dale enjoyed the view, and the two of them were adorable when they traversed the city together.
By the time I walked out the door, however, I was sweating because Dale did not like it when I took him places. He was a sweet baby boy for my dad, the shit, but he did not enjoy outings with me.
I’d literally had to hold him in with my elbow—as he hissed and clawed—while closing up the bag, and this was after chasing him through the entire house.
So the odds of charming Connor into a second date were suddenly looking slim.
Because now he was going to think I was a crazy cat lady when I showed up. He was going to take one look at me, with my smeared eyeliner, sweaty upper lip, cat hair–covered outfit, and enormous pet carrier backpack, and the dude would thank his lucky stars that I’d been dumb enough to reject him.