I pull a sip from my beer bottle, my fingers digging into the Broncos koozie hugging the bottom of the bottle. “I don’t know if I should be happy about that or punching you in the nuts.” I pause and then add, “Where do I fall in line with an abacus?”
“What kind of abacus are we talking about here? Chinese, Greek, Persian, Roman? If it’s Chinese, you are far above the wooden beads they would use on their abacuses, but if you’re talking about a Greek abacus, I’m going to have to give the upper hand to the counting board purely because they were made from marble and as you know, I’m a fancy fuck.”
I stare at my obnoxious friend, perplexed from his asinine and useless knowledge. “Fuck you, man.” I laugh, shaking my head just as my phone beeps with an incoming text message.
“I’m going to take a piss before the game starts, need anything while I’m up?”
“I’m good,” I call out just as I look down at my phone.
The caller ID reads Daisy, with a flower next to her name. Huh, what does she want? Curious, I pull up the message.
Daisy: Go Broncos! Hope you guys are having a fun day. Step three is to grow our support so I thought I would start a group message. I hope that’s okay. I just learned how to do it from my sister. If you’re not Jace, Hollyn, or Carter, please ignore this message. Thank you.
Sipping my beer, I stare at the message. Step three. Christ, it’s like this program is forcing friendships upon us. Daisy is all right, Jace is cool, well I assume he’s pretty cool, can’t tell at the moment, but Hollyn, hell, she drives me insane.
My phone beeps, speak of the devil.
Hollyn: Great idea, Daisy. Go Broncos!
Fucking blow my brains out, blow them out right now. I despise group text messages.
Daisy: Thank you. This is my first time watching the Super Bowl. My sister said it’s the one time you actually want to watch the commercials.
Hollyn: Your first time? How is that possible?
This right here, this is why group text messages should never be allowed. Why do I want to be a part of a conversation that really is between two people? Thank you, Apple, thank you for fucking with my sanity.
Jace: Yeah, how is that possible?
“Ah, come on, Jace, not you too,” I mutter to my phone.
“Talking to yourself?” Fitzy asks, jumping into his chair from behind, balancing a bowl of peanut M&M’s—my weakness—in one hand and his beer in the other.
Fitzy knows all about the Dear Life program. After the first night, I stopped by his place and bitched to him for a few hours, telling him all about Hollyn, Daisy, and her strange old-lady look, but made sure to keep Jace out of the conversation. So basically, the bullshit I have to go through. Fitzy is my boy but the gossip this man can spin around the city of Denver is obnoxious. He swears he can keep a secret, but I know for a fact that’s not true.
“Snowflake started a group text.”
“Oh, Snowflake.” Fitzy shakes his head. “Doesn’t she know that’s piss-poor social etiquette?”
“She has no idea.”
Turning back to my phone, I catch up on the messages being shot back and forth.
Daisy: We didn’t have cable and Grams is not much of a sports girl so we never partook in such an event. But don’t worry, I’m dressed for the occasion.
The next text is a picture of Daisy. Smiling to myself, I press on the picture to make it bigger. Standing in front of the TV where the pregame is playing, Daisy holds a football in a throwing position, wearing a pair of light colored jeans that taper at the ankle, total mom-jean material, and a blue crewneck sweater with an orange Bronco emblem cut and sewed out of different fabrics. And I’m pretty sure . . . yup, once I zoom in, I see the use of puffy paint.
Fuck, I can’t help the smile that grows from ear to ear. She’s kind of a dork but in a refreshing way. What’s the term? Adorkable? Shit, I hate that I even thought of the word.
Hollyn: Where did you get that sweatshirt?
I can’t help it, I ask as well.
Carter: Yeah, where did you get that sweatshirt? It’s kind of amazing.
Amazing in a quirky, old-school, it’s-cool-to-be-weird way, but hell, I would wear the shit out of that thing.
Daisy: I made it! I went to the fabric store the other day and gathered the materials. I wasn’t too sure how it would turn out, but I made some for my sister and her fiancé as well.
The next text is a picture of Daisy, with who I’m assuming is her sister and her fiancé arm in arm, wearing matching crewneck sweatshirts. I hold in the snort that wants out. The look on the fiancé’s face is priceless. The only reason that man is wearing that sweatshirt is because his woman made him. Just from the way he styles his hair, I can tell he’s not an iconic dresser like myself. If I had that sweatshirt, I would wear it with pride.
Hollyn: Matt looks like he wants to slam his head into a wall.
Jace: Hey, Matt works in the front office of my ball club. What a small world.
Daisy: Matt is humoring me for sure.
Carter: I would wear that sweatshirt so fucking hard.
The minute I press send, I wonder why I even typed out that response, let alone sent it. I don’t participate in group messages. I don’t participate in general, but there is something about Daisy that gets under my skin. Maybe it’s her story, how she’s looking to break free like me, or how she’s always looking to please and putting herself out there. Either way, I see the effort she’s making and it makes me want to at least return that effort to her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Fitzy asks, pulling me from my phone. “You’re not even paying attention to the zingers I’m making at Joe Buck. It’s been some of my best material.”
“Sorry.” I place my phone next to me on the couch but glance down when I see more incoming texts. There is an underlying need to open them, to read them, to see what everyone is up to. Why? Why is that something I need to know? I barely know these people. I really don’t care to know them, but here I am, forcing myself to watch the pregame show as Fitzy retells his jokes, while I desperately itch to pick up my phone.
“Joe Buck is delusional,” Fitzy spouts off. He then turns to me and holds up the bowl in his hand. “M&M?”
“Sure.” I sigh, reaching over, my eyes catching a glimpse of another picture from Daisy.
Shit, don’t look at it, don’t look at it.
Don’t look at it!
I pop an M&M in my mouth and glance down at my phone, tapping on the picture. It’s an up-close shot of the sweatshirt. So fucking perfect. I smile to myself as I turn my attention back to the game.
In Daisy’s words, Go Broncos!
DAISY
“Everyone seems to think my sweatshirts are quite fetching,” I say, just as Matt starts to jump off the couch, screaming at the TV while holding his plush football he can’t seem to put down. Even when he goes to the bathroom. Blech.