ultimate stakes. Why does all my goddamn confidence go right out the window with her? Why does she bring me to my damn knees the way she does?
In my heart, I think it’s because if I don’t call, she can’t reject me, tell me I’m an idiot. Right now, doing nothing, there’s still hope. But if I call and she tells me to fuck off, it’s over.
I should’ve fucking kissed her. How did I not kiss her? I mock myself relentlessly in my head, over and over. This is all I’ve done the past three days.
Not once in the history of Rick Lawrence has this happened with a woman. I would imagine it’s because I’ve never actually cared about one, but I still figured I’d come through like Jordan in the clutch when it really mattered. Like Jimi Hendrix and the Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock. You just do something over and over in life, until it’s a habit and you can do it in your sleep without thinking.
I’m a motherfucking choke artist to the third power plus tax.
I glance over at the phone, my brain still going apeshit.
All these thoughts keep me from pressing that button, calling her up and telling her I’m sorry and what’s going to happen next. She’s going to be mine and that’s how the world works from this minute forward.
I talk to myself out loud. “Okay, I’m calling. This is what’s gonna happen, Rick. Fucking call her up, no pussy tone in your voice, commanding as fuck, and tell her you’re sorry, but she’s getting kissed next time. We don’t give a fuck how lame it sounds, Richard Pussyface, it’s what you’re doing. This is the love of your life. You can’t let her get away. Grow a goddamn sack down there.”
Maybe I won’t say exactly that, but it’s enough for my finger to press the button.
Ringing.
More ringing.
Holy fucking shit, I hit the button. It’s still ringing. She could pick up any second.
The thought fucking terrifies me and excites me simultaneously.
My heart redlines like an Indy car and my palms immediately clam up. Why do I both hate and love how nervous this woman makes me? It’s a euphoric rush anytime I’m just thinking about her, just the possibility I may get to hear her voice at any moment.
Regardless of these strange reactions, I’m not getting off the phone until she knows how I feel. I don’t give a shit how lame I sound. These feelings are real between both of us. I saw it on her face. I could feel it in her hand when her fingers intertwined with mine. Being with Mary could crumble my entire empire I’ve built, crush the foundation, but I don’t care.
More ringing.
Doesn’t look promising.
Eight rings.
Nine rings.
Voicemail.
“Fuck!”
I wouldn’t say I’m angry per se, but she’s at home, and she just ignored my call on purpose. I know everything about everyone. Thankfully, without thinking it through, my fingers fly into a frenzy texting her and I hit send. Shit, what’d I just do? It wasn’t the nicest message.
Me: Pick up the phone.
Possibly not the best strategy, Rick, but what’s done is done.
I shrug to myself and wait.
Mary Magdalene: I’m busy.
I smile to myself the second I get a notification. Not too busy to respond. If she was seriously pissed or disappointed, if there was no hope there, she would’ve ignored me. And lucky for me, this is where I excel. All I needed was an opening.
Me: No you’re not. You’re watching The Last Dance.
Mary Magdalene: Wrong. It comes on on Sundays.
Me: Yeah, and you’re at the church on Sunday evenings and too tired to watch when you get home, so you DVR it and catch up on Tuesdays and Thursdays because you’re a closet basketball fan. It’s part of why you moved to Chicago.
I grin my ass off as the bubbles start bouncing on the screen, waiting for what I know is coming.
Mary Magdalene: How in the world do you possibly know that? Have you been staring at me through my window?
This would be so much more satisfying via an actual phone conversation, so I could listen for her reactions, interpret the tone in her voice, but she’s talking to me, so I’ll take what I can get.
Me: Oh, Mary, what I would give to be perched on a tree and watch you through your window.
She doesn’t respond right away, but she’s smiling at her phone right now. It’s a sixth sense I’ve never felt about a woman in