Jay texts her, then hangs with a friend

Late one Friday evening, almost a month after I left the cars, I’m sprawled on the couch with a beer and a mindless movie after day drinking with a couple of buddies. I decide it’d be a good idea to reread the couple of texts between us, which consist of just her thank-you and my reply. It doesn’t take long after that for me to make the jump from reading a text to sending a text.

Me: Hey Sofia, it’s Jay. Haven’t seen anything of you in forever. Hope you and the kids are doing okay.

I hit send, drop the phone on my stomach, and justify to myself it was the **** that made me make that choice.

Twenty-eight minutes later, it buzzes.

Sofia: Who is this?

I go through a series of feelings over the fact that, first of all, she texts me back. But secondly, she obviously didn’t save my contact. And third, not only did she not save my contact, but she must have deleted the original conversation.

Me: It’s Jay, the guy who dropped off the Hot Wheels for Mateo a while back. And a ridiculous amount of Mexican food before that

I answer immediately, and then watch the phone diligently, hoping she answers just as quickly. Only about thirty seconds go by before I see the little check marks turn blue. Seen.

The three dots appear almost immediately and bounce for what feels like an eternity. Then they vanish, but nothing ever comes back. I stare at the screen another five minutes. Ten. There’s still no response from her. I flip the phone face-down, finish my beer, and tell myself it’s fine.

I wake up late Saturday morning with a mild hangover and the immediate regret that comes from drunk-texting. My phone is on the nightstand next to my bed, and I groan as I unplug it, questioning what the hell I was thinking when I had texted her. I wasn’t even that drunk by that point.

By early afternoon I’m nursing on a bottle of Gatorade at Dan’s place. He’s got the game on, and our feet are up on the old coffee table, while we’re tearing into a bag of chips and watching a bunch of guys make more money in a few hours’ play time, than I will all year.

“So,” he says around a mouthful of overly seasoned goodness, “you gonna tell me why you’re acting like someone kicked your dog, or do I have to kick you out? Because you’re bringing me down, dude, and you don’t even have to say anything to do it. That’s how fuckin’ miserable the energy is that you’re putting out.”

I groan and drop my head back against the couch. “I’m sorry, man. I did something stupid yesterday.”

He pauses mid-chew, immediately smiling at my misery. “Oh, so you’re the one that kicked somebody’s dog. Now I’ve gotta hear it.”

I tell him about rereading the old texts a little while after our drinking the day before, and then sending the “hope you’re okay” message, which resulted in her asking who it was, me reminding her, the dots appearing… and then the confirmation that I’m a fucktard when she eventually decided I wasn’t even worth texting back.

Dan listens, nodding slowly, then bursts out laughing. “Bro. You drunk-texted the hot married mom? You didn’t need to do that to find out you’re a fucktard. I could’ve told you that without you having to make yourself out as one to her.”

“Fuck you, man.”

“No, no- this is gold.” He sets the chips down and turns toward me, leaning in like he’s legitimately excited. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been mooning over this woman for months. And don’t fucking deny that shit anymore, because I think this makes it pretty impossible to argue. And it’s not like it’s one of the hot chicks from school, but an actual woman who lives in a house that probably costs more than we’ll make in his lifetime. Drives a brand-new Range Rover. And who the fuck knows what her husband does, but from the sounds of it, he’s does God knows what kind of shady shit, that makes it so he’s never around, but clearly banks enough to keep her in that zip code.”

I rub my face with both my hands, having pretty much told myself the same thing already, but it’s so much more painful to hear out loud from somebody else. “Yeah, I get it.”

“But do you? ‘Cause you, a twenty-year-old, no college, still trying to ‘figure out what you want to do when you grow up,’ delivering burritos for gas money while you drive your piece of shit car into the ground, decides the move is to slide into her DMs with ‘haven’t seen anything of you in forever.’ Smooth, jackass. Real smooth.”

I flip him off, but he’s not done.

“Please, explain to me, what’s the endgame here? She reads your text, realizes her husband’s a dick, remembers the nice young delivery boy that’s about as average as you get, but brought her kid ten dollars’ worth of toy cars, and thinks, ‘You know what? I should leave my rich husband for the guy who can’t even commit to his own life’?”

“Jesus, Dan.”

He’s laughing harder now. “Hey, I’m just saying, man. She’s way out of your league. Like, I’d say you’re not even playing the same sport, but I don’t know if they even play games on the planet of hotness you make it sounds like she’s from. Hot Latina MILF in the big house with the luxury SUV, and you’re out here playing Uber Eats Casanova, hoping for a chance to Uber Eat her taco. The dots showed up because she was probably trying to figure out how to block you without feeling rude.”

I sink lower into the couch. “You know, I always forget just how good of a friend you are. Thanks for the pep talk.”

He claps me on the shoulder, shaking his head with one of the biggest grins I’ve ever seen on his face before. “Look man, if you wanna dream, fine, I’m not saying it’s impossible. I’m just saying the odds are somewhere between ‘win the lottery’ and ‘my dicks gonna sporadically add two inches overnight.’ Maybe let this one go before you end up on a watch list, or at least have a restraining order against you.”

I grab a handful of his chips and shove them in my mouth before getting up to grab a bottle of water so I don’t have to respond to him. He’s being the same dick he’s been since I met him in the seventh grade, but I also know he’s not entirely wrong.

Still, later that night, when I’m back home, it doesn’t stop me from checking my phone with a twisted sense of hope. And of course there’s nothing. The smart thing would be to delete the texts and her contact, but if I was smart, I would’ve taken my above-average GPA and gone to college instead of bringing people their food.

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