Page 37 of The Girl with No Name

The bartender has just slid my margarita across the bar when my phone vibrates with a text.

Larissa: Can you pretty please sub for our volleyball team tonight? It’s a six player league and we only have two players

Luna: I’m basically just a warm body. Volleyball is not my sport

Larissa: That’s okay! Drinks on me after. I’ve exhausted all possible subs. And I don’t want to forfeit. Also it’s a gorgeous night, and the beach will be so pretty

Luna: I still don’t think I solve your problem. How many do you need?

Larissa: Four, minimum. But if you come, this other guy I know from work might come. He said he doesn’t want to come just to forfeit though. I get the feeling he’s pretty competitive.

I sip my margarita and sigh. My plan was to head home, put my headphones on, get my oil paints out, and spend the night working on my latest piece. But I’m a sucker for my friends.

Luna: Fine. I’ll come :)

I go back to my tiny apartment in Logan Square, change, and head back downtown to North Avenue Beach.

There I meet Larissa, our friend Jade, and Larissa’s guy from work.

“Hey,” he says with a cocky nod. “I’m Gatsby.”

“Gatsby? Like the great one?”

“Close enough, yeah.”

Gatsby is tall, trim, and handsome, with short brown hair and blue eyes. He is also, I have to admit, very good at volleyball.

Even with our cobbled-together team, we win both of our matches, and Larissa is thrilled. Afterwards, she herds us all over to a po-dunk bar on Wells Street for some post-victory grub.

“Beers on me, ladies,” Gatsby says, setting four Summer Shandies in front of us at our patio table. We clink our bottles together and make conversation. Larissa is chatting away with Jade about some friend drama, so that leaves me to chat with Gatsby.

“Beautiful night,” he says, looking around. “And you played well.”

“I barely know how to play.” I laugh. “Thanks for taking my balls.”

I squint, realizing that the wording probably came out somewhat awkwardly.

“What can I say? I’m great at handling…balls.”

I laugh.

“So what’s your deal? Are you single?” Gatsby asks.

“Yeah.”

“Really? That’s surprising. You’re pretty.”

I arch an eyebrow. “So? A pretty girl can’t be single? What about you?”

“The last girl I dated is now engaged to the backup quarterback for the Bears.”

“Seriously?”

He pulls out his phone and shows me a photo of the two of them. “Here we are, a year ago. Then—boom—she broke my heart.”

She’s gorgeous. Model-like. It’s no surprise she pulled a professional athlete.

He sighs. “She dated me, and then switched to him.”