I grab my wine, forget about the glass and chug back a few swallows. Who's gonna see me, right? I pick up my phone and tap open my contacts list. "Hello booty call. Or is it dick call for women? Who cares?" I thumb through names I should erase and a few that make me cringe. I squint at the screen when I get to the M section and hit pause on the doom scrolling.
Maximus.
Err...I shouldn't. But I wouldn't mind either. We almost had a good thing. Maybe he would be open...
He's my most recent disaster. Personal trainer with forearms that could bench-press a Honda and a vocabulary that topped out around forty words, most of them gym-related. He dumped me six weeks ago via text message, which tells you everything about the depth of our connection. The sex never happened because I panicked every time things progressed past second base and he took my hesitation as rejection instead of what it actually was, which is complicated and rooted in things I don't discuss with men who communicate primarily through protein shake emojis.
But his muscles were a glorious thing to behold.
My thumb hovers over his name.
I should not text my ex on my birthday. This is a rule. A universal, ironclad, carved-in-stone rule that every woman learns in high school. Some sooner. But me, fuck. I don't know. I mean, who the hell is going to tell me what I can and can't do on my birthday?
I take another swallow of my birthday wine. My fingers move before my brain can intervene, tapping out words that spill from somewhere deeper than wine-drunk recklessness.
I'm tired of spending my birthday alone. I'm tired of pretending I don't want to be touched and taken so hard I forget my name. I'm tired of being good when being good hasn't gotten me anything except an empty apartment and a cold bed. I want one unforgettable night where someone makes me feel like I'm worth worshipping. I want to feel like Cinderella at the ball. That's it. That's my birthday wish.
I read it twice. The honesty of it burns behind my ribs and I feel raw and exposed. It’s a vulnerability I never show anyone inperson and sure as hell should not be putting in a text to a man who once asked me if carbs were "a European thing."
I hit send.
The whoosh of the message leaving my phone sounds like a bridge burning.
I grab my glass and pour more wine. A response tonight would require a miracle. Maximus treats communication the way he treats leg day, sporadically and with questionable commitment, so I can probably expect an answer in three to five business days.
I do a double take at my phone when the thing buzzes in under a minute.
My pulse kicks up and I set my glass down. Maximus has never responded to anything in under a minute. The man once took four hours to reply to a question about dinner reservations. I reach for the screen, curiosity and wine making my fingers clumsy against the case.
The message fills the screen and every molecule of air evacuates my lungs.
Tesoro, come to my penthouse. No names. No panties. My rules. Penthouse 106, Redthorne Holdings. Let me make your darkest birthday wishes come true.
My eyeballs stick on one word.Tesoro.Treasure.
Fuck. I am such a sucker for a cute nickname.
And then all the other details hit me simultaneously.
My hand trembles hard enough to rattle the phone against my ring. All the delicious wine I loved a second ago turns to vinegar on my tongue.
I read the message again.
Yeah. No. Those words are not Maximus. Maximus does not use words likedarkest.Maximus does not issue commands. Maximus would have responded with a flexing bicep emoji and maybe, if the stars aligned, a complete sentence about how he's "been hitting chest today, hbu."
Come to think of it, I don't know why I even bothered texting him for a hookup.
That thought makes me pause. My gaze drags to the contact name at the top of the screen.
"Oh...fuck me."
I fill my lungs in a rush and blow it out. "Not Maximus." I did not text my muscle head ex.
I texted Massimo.
A fresh wave of air locks in my throat. Heat floods my face so fast my cheeks burn and my ears ring with the sudden rush of blood. My stomach drops through the hardwood and keeps falling into the apartment below.
One letter. One single letter separating the man I meant to text from the man I have been pretending not to want since I was old enough to understand what wanting meant.