Page 6

The Phone Call

Song : It Just Comes Natural - George Strait

Jon.

JON?!

I stared at the name as it rang. Nah.

I let it go. Straight to voicemail. Weirdo. Ghost me during a vulnerable birthday moment and then call me like it’s nothing? Fuck off. Then—oh no, no no no—FaceTime. FaceTime?!

“What in the absolute fuck,” I muttered, sitting up, trying to smooth my pillow-crushed curls and wipe the drool off the corner of my mouth.

Against all better judgment, I answered.

I was ready. READY to tell this man off with a vengeance I’d been simmering for days.

But then there he was. That smile. Those dimples.

His skin glowed under the soft lights of wherever he was calling from, probably his serial killer basement.

And those brown eyes—big, warm, apologetic.

The kind of eyes that didn’t need to say a word because they already screamed “I’m so sorry” loud and clear.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. He beat me to it.

“Hey. Please don’t hang up.”

“Why are you calling me?” I asked, arms folded, heart already melting despite myself.

“I owe you a real apology. The gummies got me bad. I didn’t remember a thing for like, three days. I found your text yesterday and…I panicked.”

I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because the whole thing was so damn absurd.

“You mean to tell me, you blacked out for three days and didn’t think to check your texts until yesterday?”

“I was embarrassed, okay? I really liked you. And then I woke up and had no idea what happened after that flight. And then I saw your message and your picture, and I was like—fuck. I blew it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking all bashful and boyish.

The irritation in me started to soften. Somehow, within minutes, we were laughing.

I don’t even remember how it started—he made a dumb joke about me being a “gummy pusher,” and I commented not trusting men who let strangers live in their basement.

But just like that, the conversation stretched.

Hours passed like minutes. We talked about everything and nothing.

Music. Childhood nicknames. Embarrassing drunk moments.

He told me about the first time he tried to cook for his kids and accidentally set off the fire alarm with a pan of lasagna.

I told him about the time I fell asleep in a Miami club booth with a cheeseburger in my hand and a feather boa around my neck.

He made me laugh until I cried. Literally cried.

Three hours in, I got a text from my dad:

“Is someone up there with you? What’s making you laugh so much lol.” I snorted and replied:

“I’m on the phone with a friend.”

I hadn’t even heard them come home. The garage door was right under my room and I didn’t hear a thing.

Good thing a serial killer didn’t have his eye on me—I’d be dead before I noticed, which didn’t sound so bad when your life is in shambles.

I took Jon with me everywhere on the phone after our constant face-timing.

To the bathroom. While I brushed my teeth.

Even when I got in the shower—camera off, of course.

He just waited and talked to me while I washed my hair.

Eventually, we both yawned too much to keep pretending we weren’t tired.

“Good night, beautiful,” he said.

I bit my lip. My chest did that weird clench flutter.

“Good night, Jon.”

When I finally curled up between the sheets, Ranger and Nacho flanking me like furry little bodyguards, I smiled. It had been so long since I’d felt a real connection with a man. And even longer since I believed one felt the same way back. I slept like a baby.

The next morning, I was still groggy and half-blind, fumbling for my slippers and taking the boys out into the chilly Houston air, when my phone started ringing again. FaceTime.Jon. Again. This time, he was in his truck, baseball cap on, hoodie pulled up, heading to Costco.

“You’re really committed to this FaceTime thing, huh?” I teased, shielding my phone from Nacho’s sudden bathroom sprint.

“Well, I figured if I couldn’t take you with me in person, I’d bring you along virtually.

” And just like that, I spent the entire day running errands with him.

He showed me the inside of his local Costco, the same aisles I knew but somehow more interesting because they were his.

He argued with himself over frozen burritos.

I helped him choose a new blanket for when his daughter visited him.

We talked about my plans. Or lack thereof.

“I don’t even know where I’m going next,” I admitted, propped up on my elbows back in my room while Nacho snored on my feet.

“Well… why don’t you come out here? To Idaho Falls?” I blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued.

“Just for a couple of weeks. See if we vibe in person. You don’t have to stay. I’ll fly you out and back to Houston if it doesn’t work out.” I paused.

“That sounds like a good idea,” I said slowly, “But I don’t want to leave Nacho here again. He’s my ride or die.”

“Then bring him. I’ll pay for his shots if he needs ‘em, and his ticket. You just get yours.” I was floored.

Dumbstruck. This was either the most romantic thing a man had ever offered me—or an elaborate trap laid by a serial killer in the most scenic location possible.

I told him I’d think about it. Then I started Googling.

“Is Jon from Idaho Falls a serial killer?”

“What are the signs you’re being lured to your death?”

“Can small dogs defend you from murder?”

All valid research.

Tickets weren’t cheap. $490 one-way. Painful. But maybe worth it.

Jon stayed on the phone the whole time while I toggled between flights, weather forecasts, and dog carrier dimensions.

We came to a deal: He would buy Nacho’s ticket and pay for his shots to get up to date — I’d stay for two weeks.

Just a test run. He’d make sure I had a space of my own.

Nacho would have a comfy spot. If it didn’t work out, I’d go home.

No harm, no foul. But deep down, I was already planning outfits.

Already picturing what the snow might look like from his serial killer basement sanctuary.

I hadn’t felt this excited in a long, long time.

Later that night, I went to the attic to grab a bag.

Not the big one. Just the medium-size one I used when I thought I might need more than two sweaters.

I sat on the floor of my childhood bedroom, Ranger chewing on a squeaky toy and Nacho curled up in the blanket I got him from Petco, and I thought:What the hell am I doing?

But I couldn’t stop smiling. Because this—this strange, spontaneous, slightly reckless chapter—felt like the first time in years that I was finally writing my own story.

No ex-boyfriends controlling the pages. No parents editing every paragraph.

No past selves whispering doubt into the margins.

Just me. And maybe a man with a gummy and bud light problem and a heart bigger than his state.I checked Nacho’s vet records.

He was due for one shot. Jon sent me the money before I could ask twice.

I booked the flight. Two weeks. One medium suitcase, one carry-on.

A small dog. And a maybe-love story waiting in the mountains or a dueling escape from a very well-organized serial killer named Jonathon. To be continued…