“It’s time for me to retire,” I say. I can’t sit still with the uncertain feelings any longer. “Good night, my darlings.”
“Bedtime already?” Avery asks with an exaggerated sigh. She knows I’m faking tired.
Mateo jumps up, phone clutched in his amber manicure. “Looks like my night is just beginning.”
He flips the screen toward us. I guess the club bathroom worked its wonders. A handsome, Black, round-faced boy with a shaved head who I recognize as a junior in the Women and Gender Studies department has sent a selfie to Mateo’s cell with a text reading:
I dunno who u r, but I like ur confident mirror game
It’s not a Shakespearean sonnet, but I can tell, to Mateo, it’s as good as gold.
His fingers fly across the screen. “I’m meeting him in the library gardens in ten.”
The library gardens are the only place on campus that aren’t regularly patrolled by campus safety, and if you move to the right spot, you can’t be seen by the security cameras. On any given weekend night, there are at least eight couples in the early stages of a hookup milling about the rosebushes and wooden arches.
If it weren’t already painfully obvious, I’ve never been. And never will be. I’ve never really had a desire to.
“Can you believe the mirror worked? The mirror never works,” Mateo swoons.
“The magic of PYOT,” Avery says, poking me pointedly in the pec. “Putting. Yourself. Out. There.”
“As much as I’d love to PMOT with a PYT and receive some TLC, all my attempts at love have been DOA,” I mutter, besting Avery at her own game.
“Well, make like a celebrity in their Notes app and CTN!” That’s Avery-speak forChange the narrative.
“One more for the road,” Mateo says, taking down our handle of vanilla vodka from its perch on top of the yellowing fridge. I’m still fuzzy from the vodka crans at the club, but I claim the shot glass I got abroad on my trip to Dublin, covered in cartoon donkeys. Mateo’s a heavy pourer, but he’s also a frequent spiller. I’ll only end up with three-quarters of a shot, max. I’ll be fine.
“Happy birthday, babe. May twenty-two be the year of you!”
“Did you just come up with that?” Avery asks, shocked.
“You’re not the only poet, and you know it!” Mateo juts out a hip, strikes a pose.
We bring our shot glasses together.
In unison, we say our bawdy Irish toast, “Here’s to you, here’s to me, the best of friends we’ll always be. But if we ever disagree, then fuck you. Here’s to me!”
That swig of alcoholic heaven goes down with a sharp, rancorous sting. There’s a new, clear ringing in my ears, bells signaling the start of something. But what exactly?
“Later, babes.” Mateo grabs his keys, his jacket, and his student ID lanyard. The door thumps closed behind him.
Avery’s back to scrolling, so I slink, even tipsier, into my room. My twinkle lights are still on, illuminating my movie posters fromCasablancatoThe Wizard of Oz. I even have some newer ones likeLady BirdandMoonlight. I usually feel right at home amid my movie memorabilia, but for some reason, tonight, on the other side of twenty-two, I suddenly feel unmoored.
I think it’s all this discussion of my stunted romantic life and my hazy, half-formed quest. That thought alone sends me skidding over to my laptop where I unlock my tentacle-porn folder. Before I know it, I’m cooing over every word and line of sappy prose I put down on electronic paper for first kisses that never were.
Dear Derick…
Dear Mateo…
Dear Cole…
Dear Alfie…
Do you remember that night we…
If my dad had just shown up five minutes later…
I’ve known since Halloween…
