by Ney, Sara
JB: I’m not trying to set you up with him.
JB: Unless you WANT to be set up with him?
Me: I mean… **shrugs**
JB: What does THAT mean?
Me: It means **shrugs**
JB: Is that a yes or a no?
Me: What are you going to do with my answer?
JB: What do you mean?
Me: Are you going to run to Abe and tell him I want him to take me out??
JB: Not unless you want me to.
Me: Why? You don’t even like me.
JB: No, I don’t. But Abe does, and I’m not a total asshole.
Me: Abe likes me?
JB: You’re not the worst.
Me: LOL gee thanks.
JB: So….?
Me: This whole situation is so weird, but okay. Yes. If Abe wants to go out, give him my number…
Abe
I have her number.
We’re going out.
“Bro. Let me see some of these chicks you’ve been dating.”
I watch as JB taps open the LoveU app and holds his phone out to Cliff Phillips, a sophomore on the team.
“Oh, I know her—she’s in my business communication class. She doesn’t talk much.”
“I don’t need her to talk much.” JB laughs as if he has some dirty secret about Skylar.
“She seems too nice for you.”
“She’s boring as fuck.”
He doesn’t mention any of the shit that went down this weekend on the double date from hell. The fact that he was late on his first date with Skylar. Got into a fight with her roommate. Drank straight liquor, before and after the girls walked out on us. Went home afterward, drunk dialed his ex-girlfriend until she blocked him, then passed out on the couch.
JB presses down on Skylar’s profile picture with the intention to swipe and delete, the telltale red line illuminating the screen visible from my spot on the weight bench.
Are you sure you want to unmatch with BlueAsTheSky? The app verifies before the deed can be done and, transfixed, I watch as JB taps the red button, permanently erasing Skylar from his matches.
Done.
Gone for good.
I let out a breath and turn my back, guilt about going behind his back and secretly contacting her eating away at my conscience. But what the hell were my other options? I couldn’t come out and ask the idiot for permission to talk to her with his account.
He’d have laughed in my face.
After sitting across from her at that table this past weekend, I haven’t been able to get Skylar off my mind. Since I couldn’t come out and ask for her phone number, messaging through LoveU was my only option.
So I did what I did. I got her phone number.
And now we’re going out.
It’s done and I have no regrets; I’ll figure the rest out later.
“What about this one?” JB is showing Cliff a brunette with tits I can see from here. “She looks like a nice girl.”
They laugh.
JB swipes right without reading her profile.
“Does this mean I’m officially relieved of my duty to find you women to hook up with?” Then I suggest, half joking, “Maybe you should delete the entire app and lay off for a while.”
“That’s not happening.”
“Why? It’s not like you’re having any luck.”
“I’m playing the numbers game.”
Skylar
Abe is incredible.
My entire body has been blushing the whole time we’ve been sitting here, and it’s not because the heater in the restaurant is turned up too high.
Though it kind of is.
The butterflies in my stomach are out, dancing and rolling, causing me to place my hand there a time or two as Abe tells another story that makes me laugh.
“…and then I just sat there not sure what to say, because I didn’t know the answer. So, finally, the kid sitting next to me whispers some bullshit, and I say it out loud, right—because everyone is staring at me. And you know how huge those lecture halls are.”
I nod; the lecture halls are gigantic. “What happened?”
“It was the wrong answer. The professor goes, ‘How did you come up with that?’ and my freaking stomach just drops. I want to kill the kid sitting next to me, but it’s not his fault. It’s mine for not doing the studying.”
I give him another enthusiastic nod; I’m on the edge of my seat.
“I don’t know what to say, and I can’t lie for shit. So, I look at my professor then I look at the kid next to me, and I say, ‘He gave me the answer.’”
“You did not!” My eyes are nearly out of my skull.
“I promise you, I did.”
“What did the professor say?”
“I doubt anyone has said that to him before—the guy looked as shocked to hear it as I was by me saying it. Then he just kept teaching and never called on me again after that.”
“Ever?”
“Nope. Not for the rest of the semester.”
“Dang…”
“Want to hear the best part?”
“Yes—what’s the best part?”
“I was his TA the next semester, and he just wrote me a recommendation for a job this summer.”
“Stop it!” I laugh. “What?”
“You can’t make this shit up.” Abe laughs, stabbing a piece of the chicken on his plate.
“That’s a good story. I have nothing nearly as good, how sad is that?”
“Trust me, you should be glad you don’t have any stories like that, it means you fly under the radar. I find you fascinating.”
Well then…
That’s one of the most romantic things any guy has ever said to me, and it’s hardly the stuff romance novels are made of. At least—in the novels I read when I have free time.
Little does he know, I drink pumpkin spice lattes and wear ugly, furry boots when it gets cold, and have a big, black puffy coat, and get sun burn in the summer, and freckle up, and listen to the same 80s and 90s music my mother listens to.
Still.
I’m willing to believe he finds me fascinating.
Abe Davis could charm me out of my pants if I’m not careful. My virginal, denim pants.
I’m glad he texted me.
At first, I wasn’t sure he would. Jack Bartlett doesn’t exactly inspire trust in people—he’s way too…shady? Is that the word I’m looking for? The fact that I never unmatched him on the LoveU app can only be chalked up to sheer laziness.
So when I gave him my number to pass along to Abe, I wasn’t entirely sure he would actually give it to him.
But he did.
And here we are.
And for the first time in months, I’m wearing a skirt and a sexy blouse. I have my hair curled and a face full of makeup, compliments of Hannah and Bethany. Also, I’m wearing heels.
High. Heels.
What?!
Everything about this evening feels right.
Perfect.
I resist the urge to touch my hair and push it aside. I’m nervous, and the tension between us could be cut with a butter knife.
Sexual tension.
God, I want to sit in his lap.
Crawl right in it and kiss the side of his neck. Smell him. Run my nose along the smooth, freshly shaved skin there.
I shiver at the thought.
“Are you cold?”
“Me? Um, no.” Quite the opposite, in fact.
“If you are, I have a sweatshirt in the back seat of my car.”
The back seat of his car…
I haven’t made out in one of those in ages. It used to be a favorite pastime of mine and Hannah’s in high school, letting boys make out with us in their cars but never letting their hands stray above the belly button or below the equator.
God, what teases we were.
I smile into my wine glass, recalling the many hickeys I received summer before senior year.
If he plays his cards right, maybe I’ll let
Abe give me one later.
Oh who am I kidding? I’m definitely going to let him touch me in all the places later.
I smile again, directing it at him, blushing prettily to see what he does with it, how he reacts to my attention.
Abe lays his arm on the table, his large hand laying limply upon the white linen tablecloth, and I stare at that open palm. Is it an invitation to put my hand in his? Or is he just resting it there?
Shoot.
This one is hard to read.
Regardless, before I can think twice, my hand slowly finds its way to the tabletop, too, fingers gracefully drumming the wood. My other hand cups my chin as I lean forward, elbow resting on the edge.
Abe flips his hand over.
Our fingers are inches apart.
One inch.
Millimeters.
Brushing, touching as we smile stupidly at one another.
The pads of his fingers singe my skin and I flip my hand over so he can trace across my palm, my heart racing. The tip of his forefinger runs along my thumb—up, then down. Along my index finger. Middle. Pinky.
It tickles, but I hold still, not daring to move an inch.
His finger feels like heaven. It’s just one, but the sensation is heated, and it warms me from the inside out. That one single touch.
Tingles zip through my body, one at a time. Slowly and lightning fast—it’s hard to decide which it is because I can barely catch my breath.
I hope he can’t hear it in my voice—I sound like I’ve just jogged a mile in these high heels.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” His voice is raspy too.
Thank God I’m not the only one.
I want to leave here and go somewhere private, somewhere I can stroke his handsome face. Kiss his nose and each corner of his mouth. It’s a gorgeous pout, the stuff dreams are made of, and I’m not likely to get it out of my mind any time soon.
My appetite is gone; I don’t even want dessert.
Couldn’t eat it if it was stuffed down my throat—too much nervous energy, anticipation thrumming through my veins.
My eyes connect with our hands; mine are shaking slightly. It’s minimal, but I notice it with every stroke of his finger against the tender skin of my palm.
It’s one of the sexiest sensations I’ve ever experienced.
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” he asks.
“Yes. One of each. Younger sister, older brother.”
His head bobs up and down. “Oh yeah, that’s right.”
Did we talk about this already? “Sorry?”
“I mean—you must have mentioned it when we had that double date.”
I didn’t think so, but I must have. “What about you?”
“I have one of each—brother and a sister, both younger.”
“Awww. I bet they look up to you.”
“My brother does, yeah. Hero worship. He wants to be a wrestler, too. It’s a lot to live up to.”
“That’s cute. I don’t remember ever worshiping my brother—he was such an ass when we were younger,” I laugh, remembering some of the stupid shit Derek has pulled over the years. Pranks and jokes.
Dumbass.
“But you get along?”
“We do now. Sort of.” Our fingers entwine as I speak. “During Christmas when we were both home, he put clear tape across my bathroom door, so in the middle of the night when I got up to pee, obviously I walked right into it and my hair got all tangled.”
This makes Abe laugh. “How old is he?”
“Old enough not to pull crap like that!”
Abe is not on my side. “That’s hilarious though.”
“It wasn’t hilarious at two in the morning.”
“Did you get him back?”
I scoff, squeezing his fingers. “Of course.”
He waits for the story.
“I’m patient, kind of like a viper waiting to strike.” Abe’s eyes widen at the metaphor. “Relax, I’m not going to murder you or anything, but I do have mad waiting skills.” I play hide-and-seek like no one’s business and win every time. “Anyway, the goal is always to scare the shit out of the other person—except my parents. They get really mad when we do it to them.” Especially my mother, who rants about us giving her a stroke. “So my brother keeps a bunch of pillows on his bed. He has his own place, but during the holidays he sleeps in his old room at my parents’ house. My mom kept it the same. Anyway, if I crawl in under the pillows and flatten out, you can’t even tell I’m there.”
“Oh Jesus, I can see where this is headed.”
My grin is wide. “Exactly. I crawl in, and it’s dark, and he’s just getting in from being out with his idiot friends. I lie there quietly, for. ever. It takes him forever to come into his room because he lingers down in the kitchen stuffing his drunk face. Comes up, gets his pajamas on, goes to the bathroom. I’m lying there, listening to the whole thing, dying from heat stroke. I bet it took him a good twenty minutes of screwing around before he gets in bed. I’m still as a tomb, and his head is resting on me.”
I remember it like it was yesterday.
“But then it gets to be too much, and the giggles start. I can’t hold it in any longer, and I start to laugh. And he shoots off the bed yelling ‘What the fuck Skylar!’ and my parents bust in because we’re being so loud.” I’m laughing now as I recount the story. “Moral of the story: I made him wet the bed.”
“He pissed the bed?” I’ve never seen a person’s eyes go so round as I’ve told a story.
I’ve never been so proud of my prank. I preen like a peacock. “He did piss the bed.”
“Speaking of which”—Abe pulls his hand back—“I should hit the bathroom real quick. Give me a second, I’ll be right back.”
I watch as he retreats, my eyes lingering on the straining muscles in his back as he walks. The wide, defined latissimus dorsi. His spine, visible through the thin fabric of his dressy polo.
His squatter’s ass.
I think back to those images on the web, the photos of him in his wrestling singlet, which barely leaves anything to the imagination. Every corded muscle. Every thick vein. His back, shoulders, and dense thighs all on display for my wandering, prying eyes, and I wonder what I’ll do with them when I finally get the chance to put my hands on his skin in real life—not just in my imagination.
It’s been forever since I’ve touched a guy, so who knows if I’ll know what to do with myself.
Time will tell.
He’s been gone a few minutes when his phone begins to buzz. It’s facing upward so when it lights up, my eyes naturally wander to the screen…
…drawn to that familiar yellow icon in the corner of the display, the LoveU logo prominently glowing.
My face flushes, filled with surprise.
He’s still swiping and chatting with girls on the app?
My heart sinks like a stone to the bottom of a deep pool, the excited nerves turning to dread. Impulsive, my first instinct is to get up and leave; common sense tells me to stay, says he and I are not committed enough that I have a say in this.
I have no right to tell him what to do.
We are on our first date.
Still, the shock of seeing the app light up his phone is a bit too much. It’s the cold bucket of reality I needed dumped on my head; he’s too good to be true.
Smart, handsome, funny. Kind and polite.
I thought he was one of the good guys. Thought maybe he was a one woman kind of guy.
Guess I was wrong.
The proof is lighting up his phone every few minutes, and I feel dumb sitting here waiting for him to return from the bathroom, not a clue what I’ll say when he sits back down.
Another three minutes and he’s back, all smiles, returning the napkin to his lap before giving me his undivided attention. Placing his hand back on the table so I’ll take it.
My heart.
My hands remain in my lap,
one clasping the other, fidgeting as I find my words, needing to speak my mind.
I’ll regret it if I don’t.
“What’s wrong?”
Add insightful to his growing list of amazing qualities.
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m overreacting.”
“What happened while I was in the bathroom? Did something happen?” He sits up, ramrod straight, glancing around the restaurant. “Why is your face so pale?”
Is it?
My hands fly to my face and I press on my cheeks; they’re hot, not cool. My heart inside my chest palpitates.
I hate confrontation.
I lick my lips, wishing I had lip balm. “Maybe this isn’t a big deal. I don’t know—I hate that I’m bringing it up, because this is our first date and we’re having a really good time, but your phone keeps going off, and I couldn’t help but notice…”
He waits, making no move to touch his cell.
“Just look at your phone, Abe. I promise I’m not a snoop, but it kept lighting up while you were in the bathroom and I couldn’t help but notice the app that was popping up.”
His eyes bore into me before he picks the phone off the table, palms it, and taps it with his giant thumb.
Looks, sees the notifications.
Looks at me.
“Skylar.”
Just one word—my name—and I know he’s guilt-ridden. I can see it in his crestfallen expression.
“This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Really? Because it looks like you’re on a date with me and still talking to other girls online.”
“I’m not.”
“Look, it’s none of my business—I don’t care what you do.”
Lies, lies, lies.
Because if he’s going to date me, it will be my business, and I expect him to be faithful without having to discuss it time and time again. It will be an expectation from day one.
This moment is our day one.
Or was.
He seems to be weighing his options, an internal debate flashing in his eyes about the explanation he’s going to give me.
“Whatever excuse you’re dreaming up in your head, just save it, okay? Tell me the truth.”
He has nothing to lose…except me.
