Page 152 of The Best Men
Whoa.
Property of Mark Banksis stamped on my briefs.
Oh shiiiiiit.
Last night slams into me, and I groan so loud they can hear me at Notre Dame.
I pulled a Mark Banks, didn’t I?
I gotintexticated.
But what the hell did I say? Spinning around, I race to the bed, hunting for my phone. Is it between the sheets? Grabbing the covers, I haul them off. It’s not there.
A search between couch cushions, on the coffee table, and in the nightstand comes up empty.
Wait.
Maybe I showered with the phone, shot him a very sexy selfie. Yup. Sounds totally stupid and totally like me. Bet I did that instead of spilling my love guts via SMS.
But my phone’s not in the bathroom, so I march to the kitchen, where the charger lies unattached on the counter next to a bottle of scotch.
And that’s a lot less full than it would have been when I opened it.
My mouth is sandpaper, so I yank open the fridge to grab the water pitcher.
What the . . .?
My phone is perched on top of the camembert, dying at two percent.
With a groan, I jam it onto the charger for juice, where it takes one hundred years for my texts to open.
Clicking on the text string, I scroll up right away, embarrassed as I re-read every single sappy message. This is a disaster. I told Mark that I love him. I do, of course. But you’re not supposed to wail it at your true love when you’re wasted. Gawd, this is ugly. Now if I repeat it, he won’t even believe me.
I feel sick as I scroll through all the crazy things I said. I’m thirty-one years old today and still incapable of adulthood. Example—the last text I sent before I passed out:
AND NOW I’M PUTTING THE PHONE IN THE FRIDGE WITH THE CAMEMBERT SO I'M NOT TEMPTED TO TEXT YOU LOVE NOTES ANYMORE TONIGHT
But there’s a reply blinking up at me. Sent nearly ten hours ago.
Mark: I’m on my way to JFK right now to catch the 10:20 p.m. flight. The details are in your email. Pick me up at CDG at 12:20 p.m. at international arrivals. I need to have eclairs with you in Paris on your birthday. Clearly, you need me, too, since Maroon 5 sucks.
Is this real?
But Mark Banks is not a prankster. And the email from Delta serves up the absolutely spectacular news that my save-the-day boyfriend is traveling coach on a flight that lands in one hour and fifteen minutes.
He’s flyingcoachfor me.
I smell like the sewer, but feel like a rock star.
Leaving the phone to charge, I take the world’s fastest shower, brush my teeth, pull on clothes, and run a hand through my wet hair. I grab my cell and bound down the creaky staircase in my building to hail a taxi.
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m totally sober again, but buzzed in a whole new way?with joy.
“Charles de Gaulle, s'il vous plaît," I tell the man at the wheel.
Then I go to the airport to pick up the only gift I want?the man I love.
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