Female Fantasy

Chapter One

“So, let me get this straight: You’re breaking up with me to be with someone who doesn’t exist?”

A dribble of Busch Light trickles down Job’s chin like a loose tear. Sighing, I pick up my napkin and dab at it. “Not to be with him,” I explain for the zillionth time. “Because of him.”

The line cook calls out an order from the back of the house.

A baby emphatically flaps his arms, knocking over a large Sprite.

Job tugs at the bottom of his THE SPICE MUST FLOW!

T-shirt, a nervous tic I picked up almost immediately upon meeting him.

At first, I found it kind of endearing. I mean, if I made him uncomfortable, that must mean he really liked me, right?

But after a couple of weeks, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that it was just another coping mechanism, one that allowed him to avoid confrontation (and eye contact) for as long as humanly possible.

In total, Job and I have spent about three months dating, but so little of that was quality time that it might as well have been three minutes—which is, coincidentally, about how long he lasts in bed.

If I’m being generous.

“I don’t get it,” he whines. “That’s make-believe. This is reality. You do know he’s not going to come to life, right?”

“Yes, I know he’s not going to come to life,” I snap. “And quite frankly, the implication that I can’t distinguish fact from fiction is both misogynistic and idiotic. So congratulations—you’re not only sexist, you’re a tool, too.”

Job pulls at his wheat-like hair, his face flushing tomato red. “If you know that he’s not real, then why are you leaving me?”

I roll my eyes. Because I am looking for a great love, one that could bring the gods to their knees and spin the Earth off its axis, I recite by heart.

“And Ryke has taught me that I don’t need to settle for less than I’m worth.

That there are men out there who will put in the work, the time, and the effort to get to know the real me.

To be there for me. To really fall in love with me. ”

Job snivels, and I fight the urge to cringe.

Honestly? I can’t believe I ever thought Job “Space Travel Is the Next Frontier” Pesce could possibly be my one true love.

Sure, when I came across his dating app profile last fall, I found him mildly attractive.

Between his wisps of yellow hair, pale complexion, and five-foot-eleven stature (five-foot-nine, I’d come to discover; predictably, he lied about his height in his bio), he looked nothing like Ryke.

But he had a niche Jonas Brothers lyric in his profile and a mysterious closed-mouthed smile in his photographs, one that compelled me to swipe right.

That smirk screamed danger. I wanted to know all his secrets.

On our first date, he took me to the planetarium, where I immediately began spotting red flags.

He didn’t hold the door open for me: red flag.

When I told him what I’d studied in college, he cut me off before I could finish: red flag.

I asked him his favorite Taylor Swift song, and he said “Shake It Off”: red fucking flag.

But then the lights went out, the ceiling lit up, and Neil deGrasse Tyson’s voice began booming from the speaker system.

Hundreds of constellations glittered overhead.

The Earth spun hypnotically. And as we watched a detailed recreation of the Big Bang, an event that literally created the universe as we know it, Job put his arm around me and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“You remind me of a star,” he said. “You shine so bright.”

I mean, cringe.

Still, my breath hitched. Despite the extreme corniness, the sentiment reminded me exactly of something Ryke might say.

Suddenly, the red flags I’d noticed before started to look kind of pink.

Before I could overthink it, I leaned over and kissed him.

He opened his eyes wide in surprise as I crashed my lips into his.

For several seconds, nothing happened. I held my breath and waited for the room to spin and time to stop.

For my heart to explode out of my chest and my vagina to grow a pulse. For something to happen.

Anything.

But all I felt was his semihard boner pressing up against my leg.

The relationship should have ended then and there.

And it would have, had I not promised my brother, Tey, that I’d give the next guy I dated a serious chance.

So I stuck it out for a few months, hoping the tide would turn, that I’d have an “aha” moment when everything clicked into place.

But the bond never solidified. I got tired of laughing at his borderline-offensive jokes and faking orgasms when I could have been at home.

Reading. Writing. Spending quality time with Ryke.

Now tears—actual tears—well in his eyes.

I exhale, preparing myself for what will inevitably come next.

All of them do this when I break up with them.

Every single goddamn one. They cry. They scream.

They call me names. I usually just wait it out, like you would with a petulant toddler throwing a tantrum.

They reel from the familiar sting of rejection.

But the funny thing is, none of them actually want me either.

Not the real me, anyway. It’s companionship they’re after.

What really tickles my fucking pickle? Not a single one of these men ever expects to be dumped!

Isn’t that absolutely baffling? Even when they’ve done literally nothing to deserve a relationship.

They’re not looking for a partner, just someone to make them feel special.

A woman who is willing to thank them for doing the bare minimum—with a smile, to boot. And that’s not me.

Not anymore.

“But I treat you like a queen,” Job complains.

Now I really have to laugh. “Job. Be fucking real. You never text me first. Whenever we go out, I have to take the initiative and make a plan. Your phone background is a picture of you and your mother…that your ex took. Oh, and you never go down on me.”

“I’m Italian!” he cries.

I shake my head sadly. “No, Job,” I say. “You’re a pussy.”

“You bitch!” Angry now, he slams his fists down on the table and stands up suddenly, causing a scene.

Everyone else in the room turns around, taking note of us.

Him, sweat circles under his armpits and steam coming out of his nostrils.

Me, legs crossed and fingers laced on the table.

I’m the picture of composure, which only serves to underline and escalate his hysteria.

The line cook pauses to listen in.

The baby quiets and sucks his thumb.

Job’s forehead vein begins to throb.

“Those dumb romance books you read have given you unrealistic expectations. And it’s not like you ever have time for me, anyway. Always writing your dumb flip-flops—”

“Fanfics,” I correct him.

Very popular fanfics, at that.

“Whatever.”

We’re in the final stretch now. I can feel it.

He’s about to cut his losses and go home.

Later, he’ll call his mother to cry and complain.

If his friends ask what happened, he’ll tell them he ended things because he realized that he’s out of my league.

I’m not hot enough. He can do so much better. Etcetera.

Good.

I’m fucking starving. The sooner he settles on this course of action, the sooner I get to eat.

Job takes one last swig of his beer, then attempts to look me dead in the face. Unfortunately, he’s pissed, so he’s a bit cross-eyed. I choke on another laugh.

“Face it, Joonie. There were always three people in this relationship: you, me, and Ryke.”

“No, Job,” I stand up and pat him gently on the head like a wounded animal. “There was only ever Ryke and me.”

That about does it.

Job blinks once.

Twice.

Everyone else returns to their own crises, bored with our antics. My phone buzzes in the palm of my hand. I think about the laundry I left unfolded on my bed, how many episodes of Love Island I need to watch before I’m caught up.

Job gives me one last desperate, pleading look.

I shake my head.

And he walks out the door.

Relieved, I sit back down and open up a menu. Minutes later, I flag down the waiter.

“Can I please have an order of fries and a carafe of wine?”

He nods, scribbling away on his notepad. “That was quite the show.”

“Sorry about that.” I wince. “Some guys just can’t take a hint, you know?”

The waiter smiles. I know exactly what he’s thinking.

I’m in on this joke. I am not like other guys. I am the exception to the rule.

I drink him in. The lean lines of his torso beneath his apron. The dimple in his left cheek. His sandy curls. He’s cute, don’t get me wrong. First-love-interest material.

But he’s no Ryke.

“Dining alone, then, miss?” he asks.

I smile and shake my head. “I’ve got company.”

The waiter walks away, confused, his brows furrowed and his head hanging low.

And I take out my book and begin to read.