by Sara Ney
“Thank you.” She pauses, and I can hear her thinking. “I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, promise.”
“Whatever, it’s not a big deal.” I cross my legs at the ankles. “I’ll probably be gone anyway—I run every morning.”
“Oh? What time?”
“I generally hit the pavement by six.”
“Wow, even on the weekends?”
“Yeah. We usually have matches on the weekends, so gotta stay conditioned.”
“Matches? For what?”
“Rugby.”
“You’re a player?”
The way she says player gives me pause, and I search for a hidden meaning on her expression. When I don’t find one, I give my head a terse nod.
“Yup.”
There’s a short hesitation before, “Wait, is the rugby thing intramural, or is it an actual university-sanctioned sport?”
“It’s a sport.”
“So do you travel?”
“Yes.”
“Like…where to?”
“Same places the football and baseball teams travel to, if they have rugby.”
Teddy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know where those places are.”
“You’re not a sports fan?”
“Nope. I mean, it’s fine, but I don’t, like, go to football games or anything.”
“Why?” You can bet your sweet little ass her jock-chasing friends do.
“I just don’t.”
“Not even with your friends?”
“No. Those sports passes are really expensive.”
Hmm.
“Maybe you’d like rugby better than those other sports anyway.”
“And why is that?”
“Those other sports? The guys are all a bunch of pussies.”
This gets me a laugh, deep and throaty and sexy. Teddy covers her mouth with a hand, stifling a snort.
My brows shoot up. “Did you just snort?”
She groans, drops her hand. “Ugh, you heard that?”
“I mean, yes? It was an audible snort.”
And it was so fucking adorable.
“I hate when I do that.”
“So you’re a snorter?”
“Could you not call it that?”
“Snorter? Do you have a better word for it?”
“Not giving it a word is a better word for it. And not bringing it up again would be fantastic.”
“But it’s kind of cute.”
“Stop.”
I oink like a pig.
“Oh my god.”
I oink again.
“Kipling.”
No she did not just call me that. “Hey, we had a deal about the names.”
“Then stop oinking!”
“That was a snort.” I’m tempted to do it again. “Not to be confused with a fart. Two opposites ends.”
Teddy sits up, indignant, blanket falling away and revealing her crisp white tank top. The shadow of her nipples beneath, chest rising and falling. “I do not sound like a pig when I snort!”
My shoulders give a shrug. “Tomayto, tomahto.”
“Shut up!” But she’s giggling when she says it.
“Fine, I won’t make fun of you anymore.”
“Good, because I hate it.”
“Why do you get made fun of?” I’m teasing, but the silence that follows is enough to answer my question, and my brows furrow. “Who makes fun of you?” Teddy is the sweetest fucking girl I’ve met at this school—I mean, I’ve only known her for all of three seconds, but I doubt she’d intentionally hurt anyone’s feelings. “Let me guess—your roommate and those other friends of yours.”
More silence. “No. It’s not my other friends.”
“So just your bitchy roommate.”
“Could you not call her tha—look, she’s not bitchy, okay? She’s just…” A diminutive shrug of her delicate shoulders.
“Do not—do not tell me she’s misunderstood.”
“She is who she is, I guess.”
“And what is that?” A cock-blocker.
Jock chaser?
Selfish?
“We’ve always been opposites. Friends don’t have to match. Friendships aren’t perfect—you should know that.”
“No, but guys are different. We don’t have feelings, and if one of my friends treated me like shit, he wouldn’t be my friend anymore.”
Teddy rolls her eyes so far back, they’re likely to get stuck in the back of her head. “Mariah doesn’t treat me like shit.”
Mariah.
Even the name sounds like a Mean Girl name.
Mariah: almost rhymes with piranha.
“Doesn’t treat you like shit, you say? This from the girl sitting in some strange guy’s living room, miles from campus, on God knows what street in the middle of the night because you couldn’t go home, because she is banging some dude in your one-bedroom room apartment and she doesn’t give a shit that you’re not home safe.”
Damn. That came out sounding way harsh, didn’t it?
Still, it’s the fucking truth.
“I-I…” Teddy stutters, and for a brief moment, I feel terrible.
Meh, kind of.
Fine, not really. I don’t know her, I don’t know her roommate—but I do know she needs to buck up and grow a pair of balls.
“Face it, Teddy, you need lessons on how to be a bigger bitch.”
“Are you insane? The last thing I want to do is become a bitch on purpose.”
“A badass then.”
“A badass?” Her brows are up in her hairline. “Even that’s a stretch for me.”
“Fine. You need to grow a backbone.”
“I have one! It’s just…I’d rather choose what battles I want to fight.”
“And how many fights have you ever been in?”
“None?”
“Arguments?”
“Er…”
“How many times has your good buddy Mariah swept in and ‘stolen’ a guy you’re talking to?” I use air quotes, and Teddy flinches.
“I don’t know.”
“More than one but less than five?” Jesus, why do I keep pushing this?
She shrugs.
“More than five but less than ten?”
“Kip! Who cares? If a guy doesn’t like me for me and lets a girl like Mariah swoop in and ‘steal’ him, I don’t want him anyway!” Her voice is raised and she uses air quotes too, imitating me before crossing her arms over her chest defensively.
“If he doesn’t like you for you? Is that the kind of bullshit girls tell themselves when they get rejected?”
From across the room, I see her mouth fall open.
Oops. Was it something I said? It looks like I kicked her puppy.
“So that’s a yes.”
Her mouth sets into a thin line, lips pursed.
“Teddy, there are rules, you know, and your friend breaks almost all of them.”
“What rules?”
“Girl code and shit. I don’t know—you should know more about this than I do. How to be a wingman and not a cock-blocker, how to date an athlete—shit like that.”
“Come on, now you’re just making stuff up.”
“Rule number two: care less about what people think and more about doing what makes you happy.”
“That’s not a rule—that’s an inspirational quote. Also, what was the first rule?”
“Don’t be a pussy.” I can tell she’s barely containing her impatience and cock my head to one side. “Why are you being like this?”
Her answer is to laugh again. “Because you’re kind of a weirdo.”
I wonder if she’d call me a weirdo—to my face—if my face wasn’t covered with enough hair to keep me warm through a blizzard on a mountaintop. What would she say if she knew I was so ridiculously good-looking beneath this beard that modeling agencies would be knocking on my door wanting to blast my picture through every major sports magazine?
But that’s just my humble opinion.
/> “I’m serious, Teddy—you’re not going to find a boyfriend if you keep doing the shit you’re doing at house parties.”
“Who said anything about me wanting a boyfriend?”
“So you don’t want one?”
“I mean…” She falters so long I know what her answer is going to be. “Yes, but there’s no rush.”
“Well that’s a good, because it’s certainly going to take you fucking forever to find one at the rate you’re going.”
I can’t tell in this light, but I swear she draws back. “Kip, that’s a shitty thing to say.”
“But true,” I persist, trying to put what I’m about to say next delicately. Or not. “You’re not going to get a boyfriend playing bartender at the keg every weekend or holding your friend’s beer while she’s upstairs fucking random dudes.”
“That’s not what she’s doing!” Teddy gasps.
I smirk knowingly. “It’s not?”
“No!”
How so very wrong sweet, young Teddy is. “How would you know? Did she tell you that?”
“No.”
“Peter Newton. Kyle Remington. Archer Eisenhower.” I tick the names off on my fingers, satisfaction curving my mouth into a smile. “She might not have told you, but they told me.”
“What are those, the names of future presidents?” Teddy jokes naïvely.
“No, Theodora. Those are the dudes your roommate has fucked the past three weekends while you were downstairs being all nicey nicey.” If I had a beer, this would be the time I’d take a sip of it for dramatic effect. I unclasp my fingers, uncross my legs, and lean back in the leather chair. Exhale, loud and pleased. Ahhh.
“What?”
“Peter Newton. Kyle—”
“I heard you just fine. I just… There is no way. Mariah isn’t like that.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
“Is she?” The question comes out slowly. Unsure.
One nod. “Yup.”
I don’t need to flip on the light to know Teddy is blushing.
“I just can’t imagine her having sex with a guy named Archer Eisenhower,” she grumbles.
“In his defense, he’s not bad to look at.”
She shoots me the stink eye. “Why do you even care, Kip?”
“I don’t.” Which must be a goddamn lie, because here I am, pressing the issue. This little slumber party of ours is turning into a goddamn therapy session, and it’s my own fucking fault for inviting her here in the first place.
I should have—could have—left her to sleep in the hallway of her building.
“When is the last time your buddy Mariah helped you out? Or told you about her sex life when she wasn’t bringing a guy home? Or waited around the house so you could get ready?”
Most guys wouldn’t notice Teddy wasn’t wearing any makeup the first night she appeared at the rugby house, but I did. And I bet the five thousand dollars cash I have stashed upstairs in a shoe box she had no time to get ready herself, because they weren’t willing to wait.
I’m one of those guys—freakishly observant.
“I can help you.” God, what am I saying? Shut the fuck up, Carmichael, or I’ll punch you in your own goddamn face.
Skepticism is etched all over her pretty face, but she sits up taller. “Help me how?”
“Well.” I settle deep into the chair, get good and comfortable. “For starters, I notice you hang back a lot. You shouldn’t be doing that—join the conversations, man.”
“You notice I hang back a lot…” She has an odd look on her face now as she tilts her chin to the side, her sentence trailing off.
“Yeah. So like, instead of talking to the dudes walking up to the keg, you’re way too shy. You should be making jokes and shit. Even lame ones are better than going full-on mute—and why are you even standing by the keg to begin with? What the fuck is that about, Teddy?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” she says miserably.
“Right. Step away from the freaking keg and join the damn party.”
“All right.” She looks so confused, but I’m not even close to being done. “How?”
I.
Am.
On.
A.
Roll.
“Do you need a goddamn puppeteer to help you figure out what to do with yourself? Someone to tell you what to say and do?”
“You’re being dramatic. I’m not that bad.”
“Yeah you are. You need a…” I search for the word. Snap my fingers in the silence. “Hairy godmother.”
“A what?”
I’m a fucking genius is what I am. “Hairy godmother. Like a fairy godmother, but a guy.”
Honest to God, I just made that shit up, right now, on the spot.
Clever asshole that I am.
“Are you high right now?” Teddy isn’t speechless, but she’s pretty damn close. “You sound drunk.”
“Sober as you are. Okay, that’s not true—I had three beers tonight, so maybe not completely dry, but close enough.” I am six foot four, after all; it takes a lot of fucking alcohol to get me drunk—like, a lot. Plus, I never would have driven her anywhere had I been drunk. Never. “My point is, you need help—mine, specifically.”
“I’m not sure I need your brand of help—no offense, Kip.” God that name…makes me cringe every time she says it. Can’t she call me Sasquatch like the rest of them? “No offense, but what do you know about relationships?”
Oh, now she wants to get sassy?
Fine.
“For your information, I’ve been in a few relationships.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” With girls named Mitsy and Tiffany and Caroline. Waspy, pure-bred socialites pushed at me by my well-meaning but interfering family.
I throw up in my mouth a little.
“When?” Teddy is impatient.
“I mean, if you want to get technical, high school. And freshman year.”
“Your freshman year of high school? Are you serious?”
“College too, smartass—and it might have only been a few relationships, but I learned a lot from them.”
“Like what?”
Like the fact that I never want to be in another relationship. And girls named Mitsy might sound fun and cutesy in theory, but they’re actually pint-sized tyrannical Nazis, drunk on the idea of spending days dating me, lounging at the country club my parents belong to.
I shudder at the memory of her bubblegum pink, coffin-shaped nails.
“Listen Teddy, with guys, you have to come out and say what you want. No gray area—guys don’t get it. And don’t fucking lie or beat around the bush.”
Teddy rolls her eyes. “Give me a break. How is that going to help me at a party?”
“I’m giving you pearls of wisdom here—would you listen? So what if it doesn’t help at your bartending job?”
“Shut up.” She laughs, though reluctantly.
“What I can tell you is what guys want, so don’t go to a party and start pouring their damn beer. Everyone will take advantage. Do you want to be known as the girl who hands out red cups?”
“No.”
“Do you want to be the girl who pumps the beer tap all night?”
“No.”
“Do you want to be the girl who stands in the corner talking to the social outcast?”
“The social outcast?”
“Yeah—me.” How was that not obvious? Duh.
But Teddy’s laugh is light and amused, which tells me she disagrees. “You’re hardly a social outcast.”
Maybe not, but only because everyone is afraid to piss me off. I might be an okay guy, but I look like the occasional street beggar more often than not, and that makes people uncomfortable.
Although, oddly enough, girls do hit on me often enough to confuse me.
I’m not going to argue those points with Teddy, though. She wouldn’t get why I do the things I do.
So few people do, because no one knows my secrets.
“Next weekend when you come to the house, I’ll give you some pointers.”
“Oh jeez.” Her blanket rustles. “Maybe I should just stay home.”
“Give up, you mean?”“No, I mean—maybe flirting isn’t my strong suit, especially at a house party. I’m way out of my league and we both know it. I should stick to libraries and coffee shops.”
“You’re not out of your league though.” Any one of those idiots would be lucky to hook up with a girl like Teddy—but that’s not what she wants, is it? To hook up?
Nope. Teddy is a relationship kind of girl, and that’s what makes her so damn different. Even I know she’s long-term relationship material.
She a wifer.
“Teddy, you’re kind of being a pussy about this whole thing.”
“You cannot keep calling me that.”
“Calling you what?” I know she’s not going to say the word that flows so freely off my tongue.
“A…you know.” I swear, she lowers her voice as if just the thought of the word makes her squirmy and uncomfortable.
“I have no idea what I always call you.” My eyes widen, lending an innocent air to my expression, which she’s probably hard-pressed to see in the dim light.
“You’re so full of shit, Kip.”
“For real though, enlighten me. I call people all sorts of things. Shitface, doofus, fucker.”
“The P word.”
“The P word, the P word…” I scratch my beard. “Pussy? When else have I called you that?”
“Uh—the first night we met? Like, four times?”
Did I? Huh. “Really, four times? That sounds so unlike me.”
Actually it isn’t unlike me, because I really do love that word. What guy doesn’t?
Pussy, noun: a wimp or someone who’s a total chickenshit. Won’t take risks, overthinks everything. Scared of their own shadow.
Pussy, noun: a cat. Furry kitty. Pet-able. Purrs when I stroke it—if I ever wanted to stroke a pussycat, which I don’t.
Which brings me to…
Pussy, noun: female genitals. Vagina. A place I haven’t sunk myself into in far too long, and now that I’m thinking about it, the dick in my pants gets stiff.
I’m uncomfortable in these thin, mesh gym shorts, which, in hindsight, were probably a bad idea—though it’s not like I planned to get a woody after I already jerked off once tonight.
Get your damn head out of the gutter, Sasquatch—the last thing you need is sex on the brain.
