For Real 1 Ed 2013 1493741969 pdf

  

For Real (Rules of Love, Book One)

  Copyright © 2013 Chelsea M. Cameron

  

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. All rights reserved.

  Edited by Cover Copyright © Sarah Hansen at

  Interior Design

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but can you watch my computer?” “What?” I pull my earbuds out and look up to meet a pair of astonishingly golden-brown eyes set in a chiseled face under a head of black hair shaved short on the sides and left long on top and gelled to one side like a wave. From the top of his shirt peek several tattoos and both arms are also covered, but I don’t have a chance to see what they are, as my eyes are drawn back to his eyes and I’m left momentarily without words.

  I fish for something in my brain to say and come up with two words. “Yeah, sure.” Brilliant. He flashes me a quick smile, pulls his ringing cellphone out of one baggy pocket, and dashes out of the cafe. I’ve been so immersed in working on my paper that I hadn’t even seen him come in, even though he’s been sitting at a table right behind me.

  Outside, he’s strolling up and down the sidewalk in front of the cafe, talking on his phone, a smile on his face. I turn in my chair and sneak a peek at his laptop, which is open to Facebook. I’m too far away to see anything, but I know the page layout well enough. He also has a stack of books, and a notebook open with some scribbles in it. A cup of black coffee steams next to the computer. I turn back around so he won’t catch me being a total creeper. Plus, I need to get back to work. I can’t get distracted now.

  I’m just starting the second semester of my junior year, and I can almost taste my degree. It tastes like victory and thick paper. In less than two years I’ll have a bachelor’s of science degree in business and be well on my way to an MBA. It makes me shiver inside just thinking about having my own office at the top of a glossy skyscraper, sitting at my mahogany desk and crossing my nylon-clad legs as I sign a corporate merger with a pen that probably costs more than the car I currently drive. Utter bliss. Yes, I want to have money when I’m older. I’ve lived twenty-one years without it. I know it can’t buy happiness, but my family was pretty miserable without it.

  My phone buzzes with a text from my roommate, Hazel. I open it to find a picture of a penis. I’ve never sexted with a boy. Just Hazel. Maybe I should look into the lesbian thing.

  Shut it down, Shannon. Shut it down and focus. I breathe three times, in and out, closing my eyes and emptying my mind. Every thought drains out and I lock my eyes back on my computer screen.

  My paper isn’t due until next week, but I never wait until the last minute to do a paper like everyone else. You never get anywhere by procrastinating, as has been proven by both my parents and my older brother, Cole, through the dizzying array of semi-failed jobs and careers they’ve had. My brother can’t even make it as a pot dealer, his current occupation. Probably because he smokes too much of his product. dishwater blonde hair (that I cover up with highlights) and blue eyes, I don’t act like a single one of them. I’ve heard my parents wonder more than once if I was possessed. They were joking, of course, but it still stings when they point out what I’m already painfully aware of, that I don’t fit in. I’m the black freaking sheep.

  “Thanks.” The laptop guy is back. He braces his hands on my table and leans down so his face is close to mine. Dude, invade my personal bubble much? “I don’t normally trust strangers with my stuff, but you look . . .” his eyes skim their way up and down my body, and I shift under his scrutiny. “Trustworthy,” he finally says.

  Well, I probably do. I have to go to work in the operations department of a local bank later, so I have a black pencil skirt with a white blouse tucked into it and my cute-but-comfortable tan pumps on. In contrast, his shirt has a cartoon robot splashed across the front and his jeans are really baggy, but not sagging too much. It would be clear to anyone looking at us side-by-side that we have next to nothing in common.

  “I think that’s a compliment,” I say as he straightens up and starts moving back toward his table. “That’s up to you,” he says, walking backwards and finally sitting back down. I turn back around, shaking my head. Whatever.

  I start putting my earbuds back in, but stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. “For your trouble,” he says, as I slowly turn around to see him standing right behind my chair, holding a plate out to me with a scone on it. “Raspberry scone?” “Uh, no. Thank you. I’m good.” I just polished off a blueberry muffin and I’m on my second cup of black tea.

  “You sure? This is a really good scone. You could wrap it up and take it home with you.” He waves the plate in front of me, as if that’s supposed to entice me. “No, thanks.” I turn around again and hope he’ll go away. “Fine, then I guess I’ll just owe you one.” I turn my music back on and ignore him. Saint-Sens fills my ears and drowns out the rest of the noise in the cafe as I pull my focus back to my paper. An hour later, I type the finishing touches and start packing my things up. The guy is gone, and

  I’ve been too absorbed to notice when he’d left. My chances of seeing him ever again are slim, since Central Maine University has nearly ten thousand students, and most of them are commuters.

  I say a quick prayer before turning the key on my Crown Victoria (which I got dirt cheap because it was a former police car), hoping it’ll start. Thankfully, the engine engages with a minimum of sputtering and I drive from downtown Hartford to the next town over, Deermont, where my job is. I park near the back of the building and swipe my card in the door. I have just enough time to get to my desk, turn my computer on and clock in. So far, I have never been late. Not only because I hate being late, but I’m also terrified of my boss.

  My cubicle is near the back of the building, in the “farm” as everyone calls it. I say hello to a few of my coworkers, most of whom are fellow students. My favorite coworker, Amelia, isn’t working today. Bummer. Nearly everyone else’s cubicles just has a few papers or photographs, but hers is covered with her drawings and positive notes and pictures of butterflies. Amelia’s the sunniest person I’ve ever met. Sometimes she’s too much, but things never seem too bad when she’s around.

  I have a stack of loan files that need to be scanned, so I start with removing the staples from all the pages. Yes, it’s as boring as it sounds, but at least I can listen to my music. I put my earbuds back in and get to work. This is what I need to do to get where I want to be. Everyone has to start appraisal.

  Three hours later, I am ready to go back to my apartment and get busy on more homework. I’m fishing in my purse for my keys when my hand closes on something. It’s a paper crane folded out of notebook paper. What the heck? I don’t know where it came from, but I know that it wasn’t in there this morning. My mind drifts back to the café, and the guy with the laptop. Maybe he dropped it in there?

  It’s a weird thing to do, so I hope it was by accident. He’s Asian, so maybe it’s just a thing that he does to celebrate his culture? God, is that racist? I don’t mean it to be. I turn it over in my hand as I walk to my car, my heels crunching on the pavement. Cranes are supposed to be good luck or something, so I set it on my dashboard. I don’t really believe in superstition, but you can never be too careful. I don’t want to risk any bad mojo.

  “I’m baaaaack,” I say as I unlock the front door to my craptastic apartment. I shuck off my heels and sigh in relief. There is nothing quite as nice as taking your heels off at the end of a long day. Except maybe taking your bra off. Men could just never understand that.

  “How was work?” Hazel, my roommate, is hovering over a pot of something in our microscopic kitchen. This could be bad. “Fine. What are you making?” I say, setting my bag down and trying to avoid the kitchen, in case this turns out to be one of her experiments. “Relax, it’s from a box.” She holds up an empty box of mac and cheese. I don’t breathe easier, because she’s definitely messed that up more than once. “And I bought a pre-made salad and there is ice cream. So we’re good.” Only then do I let out a breath. She holds the spoon out and I take a bite. Phew.

  “I swear, every time I cook you act like I’m feeding you poison.” Hazel and I had become friends two years ago when we’d lived next door to each other in the dorms. She’d had issues with her roommate, I’d had issues with mine, and we’d ended up moving in together halfway through the year. We’ve lived together ever since. We were both poor as all get-out, but we’d managed to find an apartment in Deermont and it hasn’t fallen apart yet, although it’s held together with duct tape and staples.

  As much as we get along, Hazel and I are visual opposites. Her skin is gorgeous and dark and she tans within twenty seconds of standing in the sun. Her dark hair curls in perfect rings, unlike mine that tends to do its own thing and be curly on some days and not so curly on other days.

  With the kind of figure that made guys eyes pop when she dances, she definitely gets more attention from the opposite (and sometimes the same) sex than I do. “You going to work?” A few months ago, Hazel had gotten herself a job as a bartender at the campus bar a few nights a week. It’s a little bit classier than some of the college establishments, but the tips suck, so it’s a tradeoff. At least, if one of the patrons gets rowdy, she can call campus security and they actually show up.

  “Yeah, in an hour. Remind me why I didn’t sell my organs online to pay for my education?” I grab a fork and start stealing bites of mac and cheese from the pot. I’m starving, so I’m willing to take a risk.

  “Right. That. They might frown upon that at law school, yes?” I nod and she gets a fork, too. We often eat dinner like this. Less dishes to wash. “Usually.” We finish off the pot and then share the salad from the plastic container as we sit on the couch and work on our various never-ending homework assignments.

  “So it’s going to happen tonight,” Hazel says as she puts on the tight shirt she always wears to work. It shows a lot of cleavage, but she gets better tips that way. I don’t hate the player, I hate the game in this instance.

  “What’s going to happen?” I already know the answer. “I am going to find a nice young man to pop that cherry of yours.” She jabs her fork at me and I back up so she doesn’t stab me with it.

  There it is again. The reminder that I’m a card-carrying member of the Virginity Club. I wish I had some good reason, that I was saving myself for Jesus, or my parents had put the fear in me, or told me that if I had sex with a boy that my ears would fall off and I’d gain forty pounds, but I have no such excuse.

  The truth is, boys are just gross. Part of me is still semi-convinced they have cooties. I’ve sort of dated, but every time I think about getting physical, or close to a guy, he smells weird, or has hair on his knuckles, or burps or does something else to completely turn me off.

  I’ve been on a few dates here and there, but usually I have to send out an emergency call to one of my friends. In high school, rumors went around that I was a lesbian, and I went ahead and let them spread. Of course, then girls started hitting on me, but they were easier to fend off.

  I thought that in college, I’d have the chance to maybe meet someone. But, here I am, well into my junior year and that fellow hasn’t shown up yet. Sure, there are plenty of guys on campus, but a lot of them are taken. Or gay. Or taken and gay. Or total and complete douchebags. Or budding alcoholics. Or gay, taken, douchebag alcoholics.

  Since my friends have always struck out when it came to setting me up with a boy in order to make him my boyfriend, they’ve lowered their expectations to just getting me laid. I don’t exactly advertise my virginity, but it always seems to come up when people are drinking and swapping stories, and I get red-faced and run away to the bathroom when everyone starts talking about their first times.

  “How many times have I told you I’m set? It will happen when it’s supposed to happen.” This is always my response. Even though it’s probably bullshit. She shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “Don’t give me that fairy godmother, dreams come true shit. We don’t need to find your prince charming. Just a non-skeezy guy to do you a service. Think of him as . . . a plumber.” She scrapes the bottom of the salad container for the last few croutons.

  “A plumber? Have you ever seen a sexy plumber? Outside of a porno?” One of the other things my friends have done to try to make me want to have sex is make me watch it. I’d only lasted about five minutes when I had to run away and beg them to shut it off. Seeing other people . . . doing things like that? I don’t understand how anyone can find that sexy. Plus, the girls were like, unbelievably flexible. No way I can contort myself like that.

  I’d been branded as a prude from then on. “Why are you so hung up about it? I know you have a little battery friend.” “Yeah, so? I’m a virgin, but I’m not supposed to know about my own body?” Hazel has also surprised me a time or two when I thought I was alone. “I have a sex drive, Haze. Being a virgin

  In fact, I probably have more than the average girl, just because they are so . . . pent up. “We just need to take those sexual feelings and transfer them to something with a penis. A real penis. With a boy attached to it.” I shake my head and go to take a shower.

  When I get out of the shower, Hazel yells to me that she’s going to work. I change into my favorite sweats and start on some more homework. I’m NEVER done with homework. Or maybe it’s never done with me.

  As soon as I finish everything on my To Do list, I finally allow myself a reward: a few chapters of the book I’d gotten last week. It’s a heart-wrenching contemporary, and I know it’s bound to make me cry. Hazel is always telling me that I’m missing out on the college experience, but I’d rather not wake up on the floor of a strange apartment, under a strange naked guy, not knowing how I’d gotten there. If that makes me a loser, then I guess I’ll wear that label proudly. I can party when I’ve gotten what I wanted.

  I plug my phone in, making sure the alarm is set for seven, and shut the light off. I try to go to sleep, but my mind is busy and chattering in my skull and making it difficult. I don’t like to dwell on negative thoughts, because they’re rarely productive, but tonight they seem especially loud. I blame it on the encounter with Laptop Guy.

  Maybe the reason I haven’t found a good guy is that he doesn’t exist. That there’s something in me that’s . . . allergic to them. I’m attracted to them, sure, but the moment things get close, I just . . . can’t go any further. I find flaws and they turn me off.

  I’m a control freak. No one needs to tell me that. I’ve known it my whole life. Ever since I freaked out when my mom didn’t put the crayons in the box exactly the way they’d been when we’d opened it. I’ve always needed order, and things to be just so. It’s a wonder I don’t have Obsessive- compulsive disorder. Hazel is always telling me I should get tested when I spend fifteen minutes rearranging the plates the right way after she’s unloaded the dishwasher.

  Sex is one of those things that’s a complete loss of control. You give yourself up, in your most vulnerable state, to another person, and they give themselves to you. I don’t think I’m ready for that. For the . . . intimacy. I mentally gag on the word.

  I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning and thinking about sex until it’s too much and I have to get myself off a few times just so I can sleep. Can you be a nymphomaniac if you only have sex with yourself? Finally, I fall into a semi-restless sleep, and I’m grumpy when I get up the next morning.

  Hazel’s passed out in her room, so I make sure I’m as quiet as I can be while I get ready and drive to campus for yet another day of my undergraduate career. I’m setting my travel mug in the cupholder when I notice the paper crane. Shrugging, I toss it in my bag. It can keep my pens company.

  I end up carrying the crane with me for the rest of the week, but I don’t see Laptop Guy again. Hazel also hasn’t been able to find me a guy at work, so on Friday night I’m told, for the thousandth time, that I must get myself ready to go on the prowl. Fun, fun, fun.

  Sometimes, I wonder if I should just tell my friends to go fuck themselves. To leave me alone about it. I can picture how that would go, and it wouldn’t stop them from continuing to try. It would probably make them work even harder, actually. So, I curl my hair, put on my “going out” make-up, which is a little sexier than my normal make-up routine, and make sure that my boobs are boosted and show to good advantage. There aren’t a whole lot of social options around, and the local bars are more than happy to cater to the collage populace. Despite the fact that Hazel works in a bar, the only thing she seems to want to do with her time off is . . . go to a bar.

  “Are y’all ready yet?” Jordyn, our resident Southern Belle (who completely denies it, despite the overwhelming evidence), stands in the kitchen and taps her heel on the floor. A South Carolina girl at heart, she’s somehow convinced that her upbringing left no impression on her.

  She pulls some gum out of her purse and hands me a piece as she fluffs her brown hair that certainly doesn’t need any fluffing. Jordyn has a tendency to go for big loose curls that flounce on her shoulders and down her back, and she’s no stranger to a teasing comb.

  “Hazel is taking her time,” I say, adjusting the strap on my heel. Jordyn rolls her eyes. “Are you guys coming?” Daisy pops her head in the front door, followed by Cass. They’re both statuesque and tall (the bitches), Daisy with dark shoulder-length hair, and Cass with a strawberry blonde bob. They’ve been friends since high school and I’d adopted them our first week, back in our freshman year, when I’d bumped into them after having a wardrobe emergency in the dorm bathroom.

  Jordyn is the newest of the group and Hazel had met her in one of her classes last year. Strange how you can have one encounter with someone that forms a friendship that can last years. Sometimes I wonder if the reason I can’t get a guy is because I only have friends who are girls. I can talk to guys, certainly. I’m not a complete social defect. I just . . . have a tendency to say embarrassing things in front of guys. Or do embarrassing things. Or both. And then I have to run away to my friends and they admonish me and then I beg to go home.

  “Tonight is the night!” Hazel says, banging her bedroom door open and striking a pose in the doorway. A shiny black top slinks over her torso, paired with her tightest jeans and her BBs (bitch boots).

  “Tonight is what night?” I ask, even though I know the answer. We’ve done this routine enough times. “Tonight is the night, you, Shannon Travers, are getting laid.” She draws out the word “laid” and swivels her hips around, as if she’s having sex with it. Dread churns in my stomach. The other girls cheer and clap and I die a little inside. “Um, may I remind you how many times you’ve tried this before? And how many times has it worked?” I say, tugging on my shirt so it’s even. “This time, I have a feeling. My Hazel senses are tingling,” she says, wiggling her nose. Oh, she is asking for it. I spank her and she shrieks. “Yeah, I think I’m feelin’ you,” Jordyn says, and Daisy and Cass nod as if they’re one person. “It’s happening, Shan,” Cass says, patting me on the shoulder. It’s not reassuring. I don’t have any hope for tonight. None of them are virgins and Cass and Jordyn both currently have boyfriends. Daisy is fresh off a break-up and Hazel doesn’t date. Any way you slice it, I’m the fifth wheel. Their unfortunate virgin friend.

  I hate it. They’re still going on about getting me a man as we pile into Cass’ car. It’s her turn to be the DD and she isn’t very happy about it, judging by her constant grumbling. I should have just taken her turn, but I’m going home with a guy, if they have their way. I swear, one of these days they are just going to pay someone to take me home. Or maybe pool their money and buy me a mail-order-virginity-taker.

  There is a general cheer that goes up when we pull into the parking lot of the least-sketchy bar in Hartford. I tell them I’m cheering on the inside. I allow myself one last inhale of cool fresh air before my friends drag me into the darkness, heat and noise of the bar. Here goes nothing.

  Alas, it’s just like all the other times. We all order Sex on the Beach drinks, find a spot, and my friends start scoping while I wait to enjoy dancing. I might be a control freak, but contrary to what my friends believe, I do love letting go on the dance floor. I did dance team in high school, but it conflicted with my other activities so I had to give it up after graduation. I miss it all the time. There’s something wonderful about knowing your body and how it moves and escaping into a song for a while. The world blurs, and I don’t feel awkward and out of place. But we can’t dance until I’ve rejected at least three prospects. Or that’s how the routine goes.

  “What about him?” Daisy says, sipping her drink and leaning down so I can hear her. She jabs her chin at a cluster of guys at the bar. “Gray shirt, baseball cap.” I try to study the guy with an objective eye. He’s turned sideways and talking to another guy. They’re both nursing Bud Lights. If you looked up “average twenty-something male from Maine” in the dictionary, that guy’s picture would pop up. Just . . . generic. Average. He does have nice arms, I suppose, and a nice smile. But he probably doesn’t read, ever, and he’s probably really into sports. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a guy who makes fun of me for getting excited about a book, and then turns around and gets even more excited about some stupid sports team.

  I turn back to Daisy. She should be looking for her own man, but here she is, trying to help me out. I can’t get mad at her for that, can I? “Well?” she says, sucking the last of her drink down. I look back at the guy, who has sensed us staring at him, and looks over. “Meh,” I say, shrugging. He isn’t virginity-losing material. If he’d even be interested in me anyway. Right now he’s staring at Daisy, who is oblivious. “You’re impossible,” Daisy yells, shaking her head as she goes to get a second drink. The guy tries to talk to her, but she ignores him. We finally head out to the dance floor, have some more drinks and I turn down some more guys. My friends all get approached, and they try to steer whatever guy trying to hit on them to me, but I manage to give off enough of a repelling vibe that their eyes slide right over me. On the rare occasion they actually want to talk, I spend the time giving them one-word answers while counting up their flaws in my head. Crooked teeth, weird cologne, wart on index finger, won’t stop calling me “dude”, doesn’t understand that “irregardless” isn’t a word . . .

  They finally get fed up with me and insist that I at least talk to someone for five minutes. Hazel scan the bar, looking for someone I could comfortably converse with for five minutes without wanting to kill myself or run away.

  And then there he is. Like a lighthouse on a foggy evening, Laptop Guy from the café walks in the door. My savior. I nod to my friends and point at him. They all give me a thumbs-up, so I walk over to him, with what I hope is confidence. He appears to be alone, which is even better. His eyes scan the room, like he is looking for someone, and then they stop on me. I lift my hand and give him a little wave.

  “Hi,” I say. Or yell. The music is pretty loud at the moment. I can feel my friends staring at my back. “Hi. Nice to see you again.” He smiles and my knees go wobbly. “Do you, um, come here often?” Wow, he’s nervous now? He’d been so confident at the café. “Yeah,” is my brilliant response. “I mean, I don’t come here a lot, a lot, but I come here sometimes.” Even more brilliant. “Do you want a drink?” I motion to the one already in my hand. I wonder how many minutes have passed. I must be close to being done. Would they come get me when I was done? Would they yell or make a buzzer sound?

  “Oh,” he says. “Are you here with someone?” “Just some friends. They’re right over . . .” I trail off because my friends are not where I left them, watching me fumble through my five minutes. I do a quick scan of the room and they aren’t there. What the hell?

  “Um, they were right there. Can you give me a second?” I went for my phone, but remembered I’d left my purse at the table. It was gone. They’d taken my purse hostage to make sure I talked to him. They were probably in the bathroom having a good laugh, or maybe hiding in a corner. Yup, there they were. They spotted me and Hazel pointed at my purse and shook her head.

  “Something wrong?” Laptop Guy says. “Nope. Just having an absolutely sucky night.” They thought it was funny, and I might have, if they hadn’t been so pushy and insistent so many other times. It isn’t a harmless joke. Not to me. And that is when I snap and decide I’ve had enough. I turn to Laptop Guy and say something that I have never said to a stranger before.

  “This is going to sound really weird, but could you take me home?” Laptop Guy’s eyes go wide for a second and he laughs and shakes his head. “Well, if you put it that way . . .” Now it’s my turn to be shocked. “Oh my God! I’m not asking you to . . . you know . . . I just need a ride. In a car. Like, I need you to get in your car with me in the passenger seat and take me home. Driving. Just driving. Not a euphemism.” I’m glad the bar is dark enough that he can’t see my face flame up.

  Yup, I can add this moment to the list of reasons I’m forever single. I sniff and try not to look behind me at my friends. “Yeah, of course. You must be desperate if you’re willing to ask a stranger.” That’s one word for it. “You’re not a stranger, exactly. You’re Laptop Guy.” He laughs again and I feel a tiny bit better. At least there’s one person who’s willing to be nice to me.

  “I was going to meet my roommate here, but I can’t find him anyway, so come on.” He holds the door open for me. I don’t even have my coat, since they have that, probably so I couldn’t leave although Laptop Guy is the name on my birth certificate, I go by Jett. It’s actually my middle name, but no one can pronounce my actual first name.” Cool guy, cool name. Not a lot of guys could pull off a name like that. But he definitely wouldn’t have passed as a Winston or a David.

  “Hi, Jett, I’m Shannon.”

  He leads me toward a car that seems to have been assembled by taking apart several other cars and welding them back together in a sort of patchwork vehicle. It isn’t even all one color. “Um,” I say as he holds the door open for me. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’ll get you where you need to go. You scared, princess?” Okay, so I’d asked the guy for a favor, and I know his first name, but he’s calling me princess now? That’s a little too . . . familiar. He must have seen the uneasy look on my face, or my hesitation to get in the car.

  He backs up immediately. “Whoa, okay. I’m sorry. If you want, I can call you a cab.” “No, it’s fine,” I say sliding into the passenger seat. I thought it would reek of oil, or dirty socks, but it smells really nice, as if he’d just cleaned it and also has an air freshener hidden somewhere. He gets in and clicks his seatbelt. I look at the front of the bar and see my friends. Or whatever they are now. I glare at them. I wish the identical looks of shock on their faces were more satisfying, but they aren’t. Hazel starts to walk toward the car.

  “Um, if you could go, that would be great.” Jett manhandles the shifter into submission and we take off, driving right past my friends. “You know them?” “Yeah. They’re on my shit list right now.” Jett nods in understanding and then puts his arm around me. “You also might want to smile like I’ve said something funny,” he says as he slowly drives past them. “Well, say something funny, and I will.” He turns his head and says one word. “Penis.” This causes me to burst out laughing just as we drive by my “friends”, my head thrown back as

  Jett laughs with me and punches the accelerator and we screech out of the lot, the tires definitely leaving marks behind. As soon as we’re out of sight I duck from under Jett’s arm. I can’t believe he made me laugh.

  “Thanks for that.” “Anytime. So where can I take you?” Now I have to ask him another favor.

  “Here’s the deal. I can’t go back to my apartment right now, so could you just, drop me off somewhere and I’ll take a cab home in a little while.” Jett shakes his head and pulls the car over on the side of the road. just met and all, but if you need a place to go, you can come to my place. My roommate is still MIA. Or we could go somewhere else, but I’m definitely not abandoning the girl who guarded my laptop.”

  “You really . . . you really don’t have to do that. I can um . . .” I really don’t have anywhere else to go. I really don’t. Unless I want to camp out at the library. Been there, done that. “I’m not a serial killer, I swear,” he says. “Um, that’s probably what a serial killer would say. I mean, it’s not like they walk around wearing t-shirts, or carrying signs. ‘Hello, my name is Jake and I’m a Serial Killer’.” “True. But a serial killer probably wouldn’t bring up serial killers. You know, because that would be too obvious.”

  He does have a point there.

  “So can I take you back to my place?” he says, putting his hands back on the wheel. “In a completely non-creepy, non-sexual, not-trying-to-pick-you-up-way?” I sigh, because I really don’t have another choice. Unless I ask him to take me back. No, I can’t do that. I’m following through. “Sure.” “Well don’t sound so happy about it,” he says, chuckling as he signals and pulls back onto the road. “I’m sorry. It’s just been a sucky night. It’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it.” He nods in understanding. It’s also an embarrassing story. “Well, I’m just going to say that a true friend will never make you feel like shit. Just my opinion.” I don’t know what else to say, because I’m terrible at small talk and usually say the wrong thing, but Jett appears to be gifted in that area as well. I learn that he’s a graphic arts major and he’s also twenty-one. He asks me about my major and some of my classes. It helps me stop thinking about how angry and hurt I am and I find myself smiling and laughing. Jett is infectious.

  It turns out we’d actually had a class together last year and start talking about the insane professor and before I know it, we’re pulling into the driveway of what probably once was a building, but only loosely resembles one now. It had been painted and re-painted so many times that I can’t tell what color it’s supposed to be anymore. The windows look like eyes and they’re sagging so much they made the house look depressed.

  “Yeah, it’s a shit shack. But I’m shit poor, so it kind of fits, yeah?” “No, it’s, um . . .” I struggle to find anything nice to say about it. “Okay, fine, it’s a shit shack. But I’m sure you did the best you could with it. Mine isn’t much better.” I’m being kind. I thought my place was bad, but it’s a mansion with a fountain and a circular driveway compared to this, and the trailer I grew up in was the Four Seasons.

  He laughs and comes around to open my door before I can do it. I’m so surprised I can’t stop a look of shock from going across my face. “Sorry. It’s a habit. My parents were kind of strict.” His normally happy demeanor drops for a minute. Then his smile is back in place and he’s leading me to a door that he has to unlock with two keys and two kicks before it will open.

  “There’s also a secret password if the kicks don’t work,” he says as he lets me into the apartment. “What is it?” I whisper. He leans down and his breath is warm on my ear. In a really nice way. Not a creepy way. He also smells good. Not sweaty or too much Axe-y. Just a hint of . . . deodorant kind of want to keep smelling it, but he moves aside.

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” “So you are a serial killer then.” He just laughs. I give him a look, but he keeps walking. “Do you want the tour?” He motions at the living room, which has one of those uglier-than-sin

  (or, if it’s possible to be uglier than that, this one is) plaid couches that he’d probably picked up at a yard sale, a coffee table covered in cup rings and empty red plastic cups, pizza boxes and other man trash.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, trying not to look down at the floor as he leads me through the living room to the back where there’s a postage stamp-sized kitchen complete with yellow cabinets that are probably from the 1970s and appliances that are at least that old in that ugly green someone must have been high to think was attractive.

  Jett rubs the back of his neck and I can tell he’s kind of embarrassed by how messy it is. Dishes in the sink, more pizza boxes on the counter and just a hint of old beer smell. “Yeah, I gave up on cleaning out here. My roommate just messes it up again. He’s a decent guy, he just doesn’t understand that you have to clean on a regular basis.” He hurries me out of the kitchen. “Um, bathroom is here. At least that stays clean, because I’m a little obsessive about it.” He points to the door where the bathroom is and I tell my bladder that it’s going to have to hold on for however long I’m here, because there is no way I’m going to use it, no matter how clean he assures me it is. I’d rather pee in the woods.

  “And, um, this is my room,” he says, pushing open a door off the living room and right next to the bathroom. I try to prepare myself for it to be disgusting, but it isn’t at all. In order to cover up the horrible dark wood paneled walls (who EVER thought that was a good idea?), he’s hung posters of famous paintings and interspersed in between them are what I can only assume is his own art. Half- finished drawings done in ink on white paper, some with color, some without.

  The room is small, but the art makes it feel a little bit bigger. The only furniture in the room is a bed with a bright red comforter on it, a desk covered in paper and stained by various art supplies and a dresser with a lamp on it. The room is clean and orderly, and there even seems to be an order to what’s where on the wall.

  “Wow. Did you do this?” I cross the room and point at a half-done picture of a young girl. It’s almost Da Vinci-esque in its simplicity. “Yeah. That’s my little sister River. She’s nine in that picture.” His voice gets tight and sad again when he mentions her. There’s definitely some family drama there. I know all about that, but I don’t want to seem weird by saying anything, so I just kept looking at his wall.

  I also notice that he has several paper cranes made from different materials pinned here and there, and there are some scattered on the dresser. “Sometimes I freak out and making those calms me down. It’s a habit now, I guess,” he says as I pick one up off his dresser that’s made from what appears to be a test he’d gotten a good grade on. I turn around and he’s still standing in the doorway. Oh no. This is one of those times when I’m bound to say something stupid. “Sometimes when I freak out, I imagine what kind of underwear people are wearing based on their personality. You know how they tell you to picture people naked when you’re nervous about public speaking? That freaks me out, so I imagine what their underwear is. Not that I’m doing that right now, because that would be weird—” Thankfully, I’m able to cut myself off there as my face goes redder than his comforter and I drop the paper crane. laughing.

  “Whatever works for you, I guess.” I die a little inside and pray that he asks me if I want to go sit in the living room.

  “You wanna watch a movie or something?” He jerks his head at the living room. “Yeah, sure.” Still, mortified, I leave his room and he shuts the door again. “Oh, yeah. Let me tidy this up first.” The couch is covered in crap, including a few hoodies, takeout boxes and more red plastic cups. Part of me wants to take them and build a fort. If they were clean, I might attempt it.

  Jett mutters to himself and cleans the couch off, goes back to his room and comes back with his comforter and spreads it on the couch. “Um, yeah. You kinda want a barrier between you and the couch. Don’t ask why. Just trust me.”

  My mouth drops open and he laughs again. It makes his eyes crinkle up and I can’t help but smile, even though I don’t intend to. Are smiles contagious? Like yawns? “I’m sorry. If you knew Javier, you’d get it, but luckily, you won’t have to meet him.” He sits down on the couch and pats the empty space beside him. I stop for a moment and assess how weird this situation is. I’m going to sit and watch a movie with this guy I’ve barely met (who smells great and has a swoony smile) so that my friends will think

  I’m out losing my virginity to said guy. Is this my life now? “I don’t bite, I swear,” he says and smiles again, and my stomach gets a little fluttery at the thought of sitting next to him, even though I’m terrified of the couch.

  I sit down and there’s about a foot of space between us and it feels like it actually has weight and substance. A wall. He grabs the remote and turns on the television, which is a fancy flatscreen that probably cost more than all the other furniture in the apartment combined.

  “It’s Javi’s,” he says in answer to my unasked question. “Okay, so we have movies with explosions, movies with robots and explosions and movies with superheroes and explosions, some really weird porn that belongs to Javi, The Hangover, Knocked Up, Superbad, Serenity and, for some reason, Mean Girls. I honestly have no idea where it came from. Sorry I don’t have more choices.”

  Actually, those aren’t bad choices, except for the porn. There is no way I’m watching that with him. I like robots and explosions and all that, and I’m a huge fan of superheroes, but my ultimate choice is the last movie he mentioned.

  “Have you watched Mean Girls?” “Uh, no. It looked kind of lame.” Yup, that settles it. “Uh, no, it is the greatest thing ever, so that is what we are watching.” I take the initiative and get up and grab the DVD box off the shelf beside the television where it’s the lone pink box. Now it’s time to figure out how to work the stupid fancy DVD contraption. I push what I think is the eject button, but nothing happens. This is why I can’t have nice things.

  “Here,” his voice says and suddenly, he’s right behind me and he’s breathing on me and I can’t move. I am paralyzed as I hear his voice in my ear and he reaches around me to hit the right buttons and get the little tray that you put the DVD on to come out.

  His tattoos go all the way to his wrist. I somehow make my body move and put the DVD in and turn around and I nearly crash into him, but he puts his hands on my shoulders to prevent it. He laughs nervously.

  “Steady there.” My body tingles from head to toe, almost like the pins and needles when your

  “Sorry. I’m, um, not always this uncoordinated.” His hands are still on my shoulders and the DVD starts to play previews, but neither of us seems to be able to move. And then it’s like Jett shakes himself mentally and goes back to the couch. Takes me a second to do the same.

  “Usually I wear heels and I think I’m more coordinated in them than flat shoes. That makes no sense, but it’s true,” I babble as he skips the rest of the previews and goes right to the movie menu, but doesn’t start it.

  “Do you, uh, want some popcorn or something? I’m sorry, I should have asked sooner. I suck as a host. I just don’t have people over that often. Or at least, I’m not the one who entertains them. That’s all Javi.” He gets up and it’s like he needs a reason to run away from me. What? I’m completely confused. There is no way that I could have done something to make him want to run away from me. Unless, when he was standing close to me, I smelled bad.

  Oh my God, do I smell bad? While he’s searching through the fridge, I do an armpit check. Nope, my deodorant is still working, and I’d sprayed a little perfume and I can still smell a hint of it, so I don’t think I smell bad. Unless, I’m one of those people who doesn’t know they smell bad, because it’s you and you’re so used to your own smell—

  “I don’t have anything to drink other than beer, orange juice and water. Sorry, I haven’t bought groceries. You came on the worst night, I guess,” Jett says, interrupting my freak-out about smelling bad.

  “Oh, um, water is fine.” He pours two glasses and then puts a bag of microwave popcorn in to pop and then comes back when it’s done. He hands me the glass of water and our skin touches and I get just the teeniest bit of tingles. I can feel myself blushing, so I turn my head and reach for the remote to start the movie. “You ready for this?” I say as he rips open the popcorn bag. “Let’s rock it,” he says holding the bag out to me so I can have the first handful. I hit play and then grab some popcorn. Since I have crazy small child-sized hands, I only get about four pieces, but I pop them into my mouth. The movie starts to play and I reach for another handful of popcorn. Jett shifts closer to me, presumably so I can reach for the popcorn, but I can’t really tell. Wouldn’t it be great if boys’ thoughts would just emerge like those little bubbles in cartoons? Or maybe not. I probably wouldn’t want to know ninety percent of what they’re thinking.

  “Wow, Lindsay Lohan looks really different,” he says, and I’m a little relieved. I always talk during movies, especially ones I’ve seen before, and I was hoping Jett wouldn’t be a shusher. Those are the most annoying people.

  “Yeah, those were the good old days,” I say as both our hands reach into the popcorn bag. We both pull back and laugh nervously. “Ladies first,” he says, and I grab another handful and then a huge sip of water. He laughs at something in the movie, and I’m glad I’ve already seen it so I can figure out exactly what he’s laughing at. Let’s face it, I’ve seen this movie enough times that I could do a one-woman show and quote the entire thing.