17. Let’s Ball
SEVENTEEN
LET’S BALL
ISABELLA
My palms are slick with sweat and my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest.
I’m overheating.
Did the A/C break?
“Is it hot in here?” I ask, voice high and squeaky, flapping my hands in my face to fan my heated skin.
“Nope, not one bit. The air conditioning is set to a crisp sixty-nine degrees,” Jordan replies with a smug smile on her face.
That bitch.
“Sixty-nine? Why not seventy? You know the odd number is going to drive me crazy.”
“I’m manifesting,” she says, waving her arms around in what I think is supposed to be some sort of spell casting motion.
“God, Jord! What the actual fuck is wrong with you? We’re not doing anything!”
“But you’re going on a date with him,” she points out, unhelpfully.
“Only because I lost a bet,” I remind her, as if that changes the situation. Which it should. It should definitely change the parameters of the date. It’s not like he asked me out and I said yes in typical fashion. It was my punishment for losing the bet.
Punishment.
But why does this not feel like a punishment?
And why am I not upset about losing?
And why is it so hot?
“Doesn’t matter. It’s still a date with a man who has asked you out and been shot down multiple times. An incredibly hot, muscular, kind, sweet, obsessed with you man at that. If you don’t fall into bed with him, then?—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I snap.
She gives me a sly smile and my stomach drops knowing I may have accidentally revealed more than I wanted to. “I was going to say I would be terribly disappointed with you.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the doorframe. “But it’s good to know that was your reaction.”
I let out a frustrated breath. “Jordan, you know nothing can happen.”
“Fuck the rules, Isa!” she shouts, throwing her arms up in the air.
I reel back, shocked by her outburst. “Excuse me?”
“You deserve this. You deserve him.” She pauses to take a deep breath. “Isa, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time. You hate sports, but you’re starting to become a baseball freak, respectfully.”
“I—” She holds up her hand, cutting me off from interrupting a tirade I assume she’s been bottling up for too long.
“We watched every single one of their away games last week. And the away stretch before that. And the one before that. Do you see where I’m going with this?
” I think I do, but I don’t want to voice that suspicion.
So I slowly shake my head, which earns me an eye roll in return.
“He makes you happy. He’s caused you to branch out your interests.
How often do you guys talk?” She’s quiet now, indicating it’s my turn to speak.
I clear my throat and mumble my answer, “Every day.”
Her eyes sparkle at the answer I know she already knew.
“That’s what I thought. And he takes care of you—you’ve told me about the protein bars and don’t even get me started on the snack deliveries that keep showing up.
Isa, that man is so obsessed with you, and you keep pushing him away because you’re afraid. ”
“Afraid of losing my job,” I quickly interject.
“There are other jobs!”
“But I love my job!”
“Do you? Do you really? Because up until this placement, I feel like you’ve been going through the motions.
” She folds her arms over her chest as she leans against the doorframe.
“Your adventurous heart loved the travel at the start, but I can tell it’s starting to wear on you.
You haven’t been living your life. We just had that conversation at the start of all this, and you mentioned the travel was becoming an obstacle with your dating life.
” She pushes off the doorframe and sets her hands on my shoulders.
“Maybe it’s time you start to look into other options.
Ones that require less travel and truly make you happy, while also letting you pursue someone that is perfect for you.
” She gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“There’s no such thing as perfect,” I mutter.
“He’s perfect in a way that I couldn’t have picked a better man for you if I had tried. He supports you, protects you, defends you. God, that situation last week at the stadium with the asshole? I would’ve soaked right through my panties and jumped into bed with him that night.”
Well, half of that happened…
I pull myself from her hold and turn away. “Listen, I get that you love Ryan, but it’s not worth the risk. I’m up for a promotion if all of this work with the Suns goes well. Which could solve all those issues you’ve just mentioned,” I say, effectively shutting down her argument.
The worst part of this whole conversation is that she’s right.
I hadn’t been happy. Not entirely, at least. And there’s nothing more painful than having to stare that truth in the face.
Having your best friend hold a mirror to your face and point out everything about you that’s no longer you.
The pieces of yourself that you’ve sacrificed somewhere along the way to achieve this abstract idea of success.
It’s a sun that burns and blinds the longer you stare directly at it.
She sighs with defeat. “Fine. But you’re nervous. Why would you be nervous about a ‘date’ with a friend? Hmm?”
“Thanks for reminding me of the nerves,” I deadpan, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You’re a true friend.”
“It’s what I’m here for, babes.” She settles in on my bed. “So, what are you planning to wear?”
“I have no idea.” I tug on my freshly styled hair, which only makes me panic that I’m going to ruin it, and quickly drop my hands back to my sides where I fiddle with the hem of the towel wrapped around my body.
“Well, what are you guys doing? Is it a fancy date? Laid back? Somewhere in between?” She peppers me with questions like I’m under interrogation. Only problem is, I don’t know the answers.
I walk over to where my phone is sitting on my dresser and navigate to my conversation with Ryan, throwing the phone in her direction so she can read them for herself while I head to my closet to sort through potential outfits.
“What the hell does this even mean?” she exclaims. It makes me smile because that’s the same exact reaction I had.
The message in question?
Ryan
I’ll pick you up at 6pm. Dress casual
What the fuck is casual? Sweats? Jeans? A dress? Like what scale of casual are we going for?
Business casual? Smart casual? Casual casual?
“Now you see my problem,” I reply. I pull a sage green sundress off the rack and inspect it. “Think a dress is casual, or no?”
“Depends on the dress. Pull all the ones you’re thinking of.”
I start pulling every sundress I own out of my closet until I have a mountain of clothes piled on my bed.
“We have thirty minutes to pick a winner. Let’s get started!” Jordan says with a clap of her hands.
I’m slipping into my tennis shoes when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it!” Jordan singsongs from the living room as I hear her scramble to get off the couch and make her way to the door.
I roll my eyes at her enthusiasm as I grab my purse hanging on the back of my bedroom door and slip my phone inside. Casting one more glance at myself in the mirror, I double check everything is still in order.
It’s a casual day with a friend. It’s not that serious.
I let out a shaky breath as I fuss with the way my bangs are sitting.
I tried to keep things more relaxed because—as I’m still trying to convince myself—it’s not a real date.
It’s just two friends hanging out. I’ve left my hair down in messy waves and kept my makeup to my usual work routine.
I didn’t want it to seem like I’m trying too hard.
With Jordan’s help, we ended up picking the sage sundress with little ivory flowers spotted across it because it’s fitted enough in the top to accentuate my breasts—not that I’m trying to accentuate them—and flowy enough in the skirt that I can move freely.
With everything in order, I switch off the light and step out into the living room where I find Jordan smirking while she chats with Ryan.
Ryan, who looks absolutely fuckable. That’s an official assessment.
He’s in a black Henley with the sleeves pushed up, putting his forearms on display, and a pair of dark wash jeans that hug his hips in the best way.
He’s dressed down—casual some might say—but he still looks like he put thought and effort into his look.
He’s let his hair free from the baseball cap that is his staple and instead it’s the right amount of mussed.
The kind that looks effortless, but you know he spent a good amount of time running his hands through it until he got it to sit just right.
The thought almost makes me snort out a laugh, but I do my best to hold it inside.
When he finally catches sight of me, his entire body straightens. His eyes slowly drag their way down my body and then back up, tripping on the hem of my dress before landing on my face, heat following the path they take.
“Wow,” he coughs out. “You look great.”
“How casual is casual? Should I go change? Am I overdressed?” I rapid-fire questions at him because seeing him standing there in jeans and a Henley makes me think maybe I’m too overdressed for whatever it is we’re doing.
I start to backtrack toward my room with every intention of changing, when he shoots forward a step and throws up a hand.
“No!” he exclaims, halting my retreat. “No, don’t change. You’re perfect.”
I look away, bashful, as heat climbs up my cheeks.
You’re perfect.
I mean, I know he’s probably talking about my outfit choice, but wow, it feels great to hear someone call you perfect of all things.
“Shall we then?” I ask, hoping to move out of this situation where I’m aware Jordan is cataloguing our every interaction.
“Oh! I almost forgot. These are for you.” He pulls his other hand out from where it was hiding behind his back. He thrusts it toward me, and I take in the sight of a bunch of pink daisies wrapped in paper and tied off with twine.