“Thank you,” I finally manage to get out. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s my pleasure, Gemma! We atKXLalways take care of our listeners.”
“Yeah,” I agree dumbly, still a little shell-shocked.
I can hear him smiling through the phone when he speaks again. “Tell us — how are you feeling right now, Gemma? Are you a Celtics fan?”
Yikes. I should’ve known this was going to come up.
Truthfully, I hate basketball — almost as much as I hate lying. But, can I admit that on live radio without the entire male population of the greater Boston area wanting to kill me for scoring the much-coveted tickets most of them would sell their souls for?
Probably not.
So, I do what any self-respecting girl does in this situation.
“Oh, huge, huge fan,” I lie through my teeth. “But not as big as my boyfriend.”
“Well, then, he’s probably the luckiest guy in the world right now, assuming he’s your plus-one!” The host chuckles. “You’ll make him a happy man, tonight.”
“I hope so,” I mumble, shaking my head. “If this doesn’t work, nothing will.”
“What was that, Gemma? I couldn’t hear you.”
Shit! Did I say thatout loud?
“Oh, nothing!” My cheeks flame. “Just, thank yousomuch, he’s going to be so excited!”
I think.
I hope.
I pray.
Because,seriously— if this doesn’t make him happy, I’m pretty sure nothing I ever do will.
Chapter Two
Gemma-Logic
Ralphishappy.
It’s almost weird to witness. I’m so used to seeing him look at me with that expression of half-indifference, half-frustration on his face, I’m having trouble processing the fact that he’s actually smiling at me. Withteeth. For the first time in…
Weeks?
Or, is it months?
Needless to say, he was thrilled about the tickets when I told him. Hell, he picked me up off the floor and spun me around in a circle, which is the most action I’ve had in…
Weeks?
Or, is it months?
Jeeze, my life is pathetic.
I wasn’t always this girl — you know, the one who settled for consistent sex at the sake of both that elusivesparkand her self-respect. I guess I just got tired of waiting. When I moved to the city eight years ago, I was an idealistic eighteen-year-old full of energy and hope and passion. Being single was exciting, rather thanexhausting. I spent years going to bar after bar, club after club, dancing the night away with anonymous strangers. Doing what my generation does best — total physical intimacy with none of the emotional baggage.
Then I hit twenty-four, and slowly began to watch my friends, who’d once matched my every tequila-shooter and shimmied until the wee hours by my side, pair off intocouples.