I swap my chicken and vegetables in my skillet and brown up the chunks. As usual, I made enough for two, but Jacob is out tonight. I know he’ll be back later with the appetite of an eighteen-year-old kid, so I throw the second serving in the refrigerator for him to reheat later and settle in on the couch.

This is my life—PJs at 7pm, dinner for one, watching reality television, and pretending I’d kick ass if I were on Survivor. Bear Grylls has nothing on me.

Well, except all the actual outdoor experience and willingness to eat live bugs and drink urine. I’m definitely out for that and would prefer to starve while dying of dehydration.

It’s why I learned to fucking cook.

I’ve only had one bite of chicken and broccoli in white wine sauce and the rehash of last week’s episode is still rolling when my phone rings. I glance down in case it’s work or Jacob, but it’s an unknown number.

Well, it should be because it’s not in my contacts, but I know those last four digits. One-four-seven-three . . . it’s Blake.

In shock, I sit up straight on the couch even though he can’t see me and my heart rate skyrockets in an instant.

“Oh, mah Gawd! Do I answer? Do I decline? What do I do?” I ask the empty room, cream sauce messily dribbling down my chin when I talk with my mouth full.

A car horn sounds outside, almost like a warning from fate, and I take that as a sign to decline the call.

But somehow, as I shuffle my blanket, plate, fork, and phone around, still trying to swallow without choking, I hit the wrong button. “Shit. Shit. No . . . ah, hell,” I hiss as the numbers on my screen start counting up. 00:01 . . . 00:02 . . . and I can hear a voice tinnily coming from my speaker. In full freak-out mode, I stare at the phone in horror and do the only thing I can. I hit End Call.

Smooth, Zoey. Real smooth.

I tap my forehead with the phone, praying that did not just happen. I didn’t accidentally answer and then hang up on Blake, right?

Please, if there’s a God up there, let it be that he just butt dialed me by accident.

My phone rings again in my hands, the electronic beep sounding like ‘ha, ha, gotcha.’ No such luck. I just hung up on him because that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens to me—embarrassing, awful, and awkward.

This time, I do manage to hit decline right away. No, no, no. Why is he calling me? I filled out the paperwork, so that’s a done deal, and after the incident at the beer barn, he should definitely be running for the hills. The ones far, far away from me, like on the other side of the state. Or maybe the next state over.