“I’m never weird.”
He snorts. “You once hid in a bathroom for forty-five minutes because you thought a guy from your building was at the samerestaurant.”
“That was strategic avoidance, not weird. Influencer life, baby.”
“You climbed out a window.”
“Ground floor window. Barely counts.”
Before Ethan can continue cataloging my greatest hits of social anxiety, I have a moment of pure inspiration. Or insanity. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
I pull up my photos and find the meme I made last week during a late-night spiral. It’s a screencap of Marco from some restaurant industry article, looking unfairly good in a white chef’s coat, with the eye-catching caption I came up with: “Mr. Panty-Wetting Marco.” I thought I was hilarious at 2 AM. Now, sober and in public, it’s less funny and more incriminating evidence.
On a whim I AirDrop it to Ethan.
His phone buzzes. He glances down, reads it, and nearly chokes on his water. “Jesus Christ, Jess.”
“What? It’s accurate branding.”
“Down girl.” He’s laughing though, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”
“I prefer ‘unhinged in an endearing way.’”
“You didn’t send that to anyone else, did you?”
I shrug. “Nope.”
My brother stands. “I’m hitting the bathroom before he gets here.”
“Already? We just got here.”
He smiles. “When nature calls...” He turns away, but says over one shoulder: “Try not to embarrass yourself in the next three minutes.”
“No promises.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with my thirty-dollar beer. I should delete that meme. I should probably delete my entire camera roll, if we’re being honest.
I’m about to do just that, but then I see him.
Marco Fiore, walking through the door like he’s starring in one of those ‘the most interesting man in the world’ commercials. Charcoal henley that fits just right, dark jeans, hair slightly disheveled in a way that probably takes effort but looks effortless. He’s tall. Why is he so tall? And why does he move like that, all easy smile and controlled grace?
Hook idea: “When your brother’s hot friend walks in and you remember why you’ve been avoiding him for five years.” Cut to me, spiraling.
Except I’m not making content anymore.
I’m just spiraling.
For free.
He spots me. Nods. Heads my way.
Shit shit shit.
I suppress the urge to pull out my compact cosmetic case, and manage a wave.
Not a cute wave. Not a casual “hey there” wave. A full-on pageant wave, like I’m on a float in a parade.
Kill me.
