This sets me off and it’s getting to the point where we’re both wheezing as we recount the story to each other through a random collection of consonants and vowels that don’t sound like any language on this planet. I put my hand out to cover Em’s face and look away so I can’t see her reacting to my reaction, which is reacting to her reaction—my last-ditch effort to break the cycle.
“I’m good. I’m good. I’m good,” Em says, repeating the mantra. She starts to break on the third repetition. Yep, she’s a goner. She’d be terrible at meditation. But I know without a doubt that “sleep wanker” will forever more make Em collapse with laughter.
Ten long minutes later, we have our shit under control and I can take a moment to enjoy our surroundings. We’re sitting inside our second-favorite café, Roasting Warehouse. And warehouse it is. Exposed beams and bricks and pipes that do nothing to keep the heat out. It’s a scorcher of a day and still, I refuse to drink my coffee cold. I take a sip of my double-shot cappuccino.
“This mess is two-fold,” I say, returning to the reason I shared the story in the first place—to figure out my next move before tonight. “One. Sweet Ben. Two. Xander,” I say, counting them out on my fingers.
“But you said Xander handled Ben. So where’s the mess? I mean, besides the fact you’re fighting deep-seatedfeelings,” Em says, but I cut her off at the F word. I don’t do the F word.
“Feelings?” I shake my head. “It’s chemistry. Hormones. Bodily functions. I can’t control it.” It’s the perfect defense for why my rules have held up for me personally for eleven years, why millions of women worldwide agree, and also why the execs at Netflix gave Mom a lucrative deal for her TV show.
It’s flawless.
“Yes, yes, the chemistry teacher doesn’t believe in love,” Em says, like she’s said it a million times before. Because she has. Still, I can’t stop thinking about the wicked grin on Xander’s face in the parking lot, and for some reason it has me wondering what he’s doing right now. Or who, I guess, if he’s into some afternoon delight.
“Now, I will admit,” I say, smiling at her slyly, which has her leaning in for the juicy gossip. “That if I had met Xanderfor the first timelast Friday, I wouldn’t hesitate to …” I let the sentence trail off but wiggle my eyebrows.
“Okay, I need a photo,” Em says, letting her speech about love go. Yes, yes, the English teacher is a romantic.
“I don’t have a—wait,” I say, remembering the photo he sent from the Cardi B concert. I swipe open my phone and navigate to our text message before handing my phone over to Em.
She’s quiet for a moment. But her mouth drops open as she zooms in and I can’t help but smile. “You need to break your one-night-only rule for him.”
“What?” I say, which actually means “No fucking way.” I ignore my stomach bottoming out at the idea that all my memories of Xander could double as future projections. Future pleasure.
“Not for love,” Em says, understanding the true tone of my question. “For sex.”
“No.”
“Come on. Do your Bone It boys really measure up to the original?” Em says, eyebrows raised.
“Let me put it this way. If Bone It had a rating system like Uber, Morgan would get five stars. Smooth ride. Knows how to handle a stick. Arrived at my destination multiple times,” I say, always ready to go to bat for my rules.
“You need to fuck Xander,” she says like it’s a done deal. I stare her down, but this only encourages her. “Fuck Xander,” she repeats, adding on a fun little hand clap. Oh god, here we go. The theatrics of Emily.
“Fuck Xander. Fuck Xander. Fuck Xander,” Em chants and claps, her voice getting louder every time she repeats it, like she’s a kid in class playing the penis game.
Then, she pauses midchant. And I know she’s waiting for me to join in. And I also know she won’t stop until I do.
“FUCK XANDER,” I chant and clap loudly.
I say it at the exact same time there’s a change in songs on the “caféchill vibes” playlist, so my chant echoes across the space.
And then my gaze lands on one of the patrons and I freeze in fucking terror.
“Fuck,” I say in a whisper. “Xander?” Em doesn’t register the question in my intonation because she doesn’t stop.
“Yes, you need to fuck Xanderimmediately,” she declares.
“No, Xander ishere,” I hiss, but I’m not looking at Em anymore because my eyes are locked on Xander. Sitting right there. Staring back at me with that wicked grin.
Why are warehouses made like amphitheaters where the acoustics carry across fifty tables and reach into every corner? There’s no way in hell Xander didn’t hear a) his name and b) that we were just chanting about fucking him. What horrible thing did I do in a past life to deserve this kind of karmic retribution?
Just then a waitress delivers Xander’s food and he breaks eye contact with me to thank her, which sends her blushing in his presence. Looks like the entire world wants to fuck Xander.
Okay, so now on top of the enormous task of figuring out how to handle the catastrophic moment of getting caught sleep masturbating by tonight, I now have to redirect my brain cells to being caught chanting about having sexual intercourse with Xander.
I am not prepared for this. Time is ticking. I have maybe three seconds to figure out how to play this out as the waitress places the food down and starts to leave.
