Damn, you’re a romantic
Lizzie is short for Elizabeth. Because that's who she looks like. Freaking queen. The kind who dazzles everyone standing too close. Her blonde hair is perfectly waved and never moves, not even under a monstrous wind. Her makeup: perfectly clean. Her blue eyes: dazzling.
Yes. I have used dazzling twice. There is honestly no other word available for Queen Elizabeth Fairfax.
Lizzie will shock people by dropping the word dick in the middle of an ordinary afternoon coffee, but I know my sister better than that.
She has always been a serious-relationship girl.
She does not pay attention to just any dick.
She pays her extremely worthy attention to the one and only dick that matters.
Her boyfriend's. DJ's.
Nobody expected Lizzie and DJ to date properly. I didn't even believe her when she said she had a crush on our brother's buddy. Because DJ is quiet, serious and a geek. Legitimately. That is how he introduced himself on our first sisters' video call.
Whatever a geek means. Certainly nothing like a man who would hold the dazzling queen's hand at a fancy event in the middle of New York.
I have since learned that DJ says approximately six things a day and roughly two of them are jokes.
Ugh. Opposites attract, I suppose.
So family dinner essentially means, the four of us siblings talking everyone's ears off, quietly agreeing to have our mother admitted somewhere restful, and DJ at the end of the table saying nothing and missing nothing.
Which is exactly why I am extremely excited to meet Jenny, with whom I have now exchanged fifty-four memes in two days.
I knew we'd be friends when she said we'd never talk again.
Nobody pulls my hair and then has the audacity to close on a line like that.
Jenny is half French, half English, and both halves have opinions.
I could tell before she opened her mouth.
Her hair promises nonchalance. Her face promises significantly more I do not care about your opinion energy.
Then she speaks in a flawless English accent and everybody in the room understands very quickly that she is going to say what she thinks regardless of who is standing there.
And most of the time, she has already decided she doesn't like almost anything, and she will never once tell you which things.
She also gets me at six o'clock this morning.
Jenny: manifesting a man who is dominant, masculine, runs an empire like a beast, and cannot breathe the moment I say I'm mad
Jenny: choose the cafe properly
She’s ambitious. I like her. Very much.
Jenny's already at a table when I arrive, coat still on, looking at the menu like it has personally disappointed her.
“This place is fine,” she greets me.
“You haven't ordered.”
“I don't need to order. I can tell.” She takes her boot off the chair so I can sit. “It's fine. Fine is fine.”
Two matchas. I order for both of us because I'm cultured, and because I kissed her boyfriend. “You've broken up with him?”
“Duh.” Jenny has her long brunette hair slicked back into a ponytail, and she flicks it anyway. “You think I tolerate that kind of behaviour?”
Thank God. Ex-boyfriend. You cannot begin a friendship with the words kiss and boyfriend in the same sentence.
“Absolutely fucking not. I've seen your memes. You're brutal.”
“Thank you.”
She doesn't ask me for anything, so I go for the closest sentimental line I can locate inside myself. “He's an ass.”
Nothing.
“I'm still sorry, though.” I try a little harder, because I can be nice.
Jenny lifts one shoulder, sips, and puts the cup down calmly. “Don't be. I'm not. If anything this is better.”
Correct. Being single is an upgrade. Endless choices, and nobody expects you to behave like a Disney princess. You get to be a dragon who breathes fire at people who say dumb things.
Within about four minutes we have established a shared dating philosophy, which is: Don’t.
Don't get trapped in the talking stage when flirtatious tension and unanswered messages are available. No arguments. No disappointment.
And if it goes sideways you can simply evaporate.
“Three other footballers slid into my DMs at that party.” I raise my cup and take my first sip. “I became suspicious of a bet.”
“No fucking way.” Jenny sits up. “Three of them asked for a blow?” A beat, then sigh. “This country.”
“Two of them sent dick pics. So. Yes.”
“Are they good dicks at least?” She takes the cup straight out of my hand, sips it, and nods at it approvingly before giving it back.
I don’t share cups. Apparently I share cups now.
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Just dicks.”
Her smile turns saucy. “Dicks you'd fuck, or dicks you'd avoid?”
“Dicks I'd blow if they said the right things, and leave half hard if I got bored halfway.”
That's how I roll. No emotional investment beyond what I elect to give.
Jenny goes still for a second, then nods slowly.
“You know what. I like that philosophy.” She pulls her coat off properly for the first time and hangs it over the back of her chair, which I choose to interpret as a commitment.
“Let's buy bras after this. We need ones that haven't been touched by Jake.”
I'm not going to tell her I don't wear bras. Not as a principle. Just mostly. It would be cruel to say that to the face of a girl who has recently been cheated on, and also she has just used the word we, and I'm not doing anything to interfere with that.
Now, to be clear: I do not trust Jenny Laurent.
I have been around girls long enough to recognise a pattern. She broke up with a cheater immediately, which takes actual spine, and I have enormous respect for spine.
But she could also be sitting here collecting material to use on me in April.
But also, she suggested lingerie, unprompted, and I have never in my life been able to say no to a woman with a plan.
“Yeah,” I say brightly. “Lingerie. Cute. I'll help you pick.”
“So did you actually get thrown out of college housing?”
Okay. That’s the judgement English side wrapped around French bluntness.
“Yep.”
Her mouth falls open. I consider how much to elaborate, so she doesn't simply file me as the crazy bitch I have advertised myself to be.
“Did you blow somebody's boyfriend?” She's grinning, fingers grazing the rim of her cup.
I laugh so hard I nearly snort into my warm matcha. “Fuck, no. I got into a fight with another girl.”
History repeats itself. And Jenny, who of everyone I have told this to should be the least surprised, looks surprised.
“Because you blew somebody's boyfriend?”
“NO.” I slap her hand. She doesn't move it. “Why would you—”
“Why would they throw you out for a fight? Girls fight constantly.”
Ah. See. That's it. That's the exact energy.
“I may or may not have broken her wrist.” My voice drops. I bring the cup to my lips.
Jenny sets hers down entirely. “You broke her wrist.”
“Possibly.” I put my lips on the cup to reduce the impact of my own sentence. “There was a lot going on.”
“Right. I am never touching your hair again.” She makes a face of theatrical terror that lasts about half a second. “Why?"
“When someone says they don’t like me, they hit me right where I don’t give a fuck. She called my sister a slut.” I set my cup down. “And I did jiu-jitsu in middle school.”
“Your little angelic sister?” Jenny has located another surprise. “What did she—”
“Nothing.” I cut in. “I simply hate uneducated haters. The least they could do is some research, don’t you think?
” I play with my hair. “She said Lizzie slept with a faculty member for grades.
I said bullshit rumour. So she upgraded to all the Fairfax siblings are sluts, and since she didn't know anything about me at that point, I took her to be talking about my sister and my brother.” I shrug. “So I went feral.”
“Honestly? I'd have done the same.” She thinks about it. “Sorry for calling you a slut, by the way. Girls shouldn't call girls sluts. The word's old.”
“Honestly, fine. It clarifies who I'm dealing with. I'm not complaining.”
“Babe.” Jenny gestures at me with an entirely flat hand, as though presenting evidence to a court. “You blow guys. That's not slut behaviour.”
I bark out a laugh. “Is there a body-boundary threshold for slut behaviour now?”
“If you're going to be a slut, you need to get off first.”
A shocked laugh flies out of me. I lower my voice and lean in. “Who says I don't get off blowing guys?”
“You don't have the I-am-satisfied glow.” Completely deadpan. “Collecting bodies, then?”
“Of course not.” My smile is too sweet to be innocent. “I'm a tough nut to crack.”
Which is true. The only person who has ever got me off is me, with no dick anywhere in the vicinity.
“So how did you end up with an ass like Jake in the first place?”
“He wasn't an ass when we started. He's mates with my brother.” She rolls her eyes towards the window. “Who is the quarterback.”
“Girl. He wears skinny jeans.”
“Exactly. Somebody needs to tattoo that on my face.” She turns her cup a quarter turn. “My brother told me not to. Warned me directly. I didn't listen.” Jenny sighs at the ceiling with her whole chest. “What can I say. He gave me butterflies.”
“Damn. You're a romantic.”
“I have to be. I grew up in France.” She levels her eyes at me. “And you are — a man hater?”
“Please.” I protest instantly. “I'm not a man hater. I have a real soft spot for them and it's called low expectations.”
Jenny snorts mid-sip and green liquid genuinely threatens to exit her nose. She recovers at speed, one hand up, entirely unembarrassed.
“Obviously,” she says. “How else would you survive freshman year.”
“Wait.” I put my cup down. “You're a freshman too?”
“Yes?”
“ME TOO.” I hit the table. Two people look over. I do not care. “What major?”
“Media.” She flips the ponytail, proud and pretending not to be. “I want to make magazines. And all the PR things.”
Oh.
“You're so cool,” I tell her, openly. “I'm Psych. Significantly less cool, one hundred percent more nerdy, and nobody gives me butterflies any more. Everyone gives me brain damage. Professor Brar especially.”
“Brar? My brother's told me about him. Insane about attendance.”
“Insane about discussion. He wants opinions at nine in the morning.”
“Barbaric.”
“You know a lot of athletes then?” I ask. Casually. Sipping.
“Through my brother, yeah. Why?”
“Your brother's the quarterback. Does he do sponsorships?”
Jenny's eyes narrow slightly. Interested. “Some. Campaigns here and there. Interviews.”
“For money?”
“For very little money, I think. And a lot of free protein.”
Free protein. In exchange for the face of a Division I quarterback.
“That's insane.”
“Is it?” She raises her eyebrows, trying to follow my thoughts, probably.
“Jenny, that's insane.” I've got both hands on the table now. “I live in a house with three basketball players. One of them is the captain.”
“Okay.”
“And you know PR.”
“I'm studying PR. I have no idea what it is yet.”
“Nobody does! Nobody knows what anything is! That's not a reason!” I'm talking with my hands and I've knocked the sugar over. “Perfect.” I nod to myself.
“What’s perfect?” She takes the last sip of her matcha. “Wait. You live with that basketball captain? The one who tried to stop us?”
“Yeah. William Mercer. I also live with these two basketball players. DJ Valenti and Nate Whitmore.”
“He’s hot. But tense. He’s got a great ass.”
My eyes fly wide open. “You checked out my housemate's ass?”
“No.” Jenny barks out a laugh. “I'm in the drama club group chat and his ass was apparently a whole thing last year. He got busted with a girl in the library and didn't get his jeans all the way up. Somebody posted a photo in the drama group chat.” She winks at me. “Nice ass.”
I nod along with an expression of a polite freshman.
Jenny stands up from her chair, already grinning. “Lingerie?”
Obviously.