Grass water
Jenny: The guy stood me up
The text arrives while I am in a dark bedroom with Jason’s mouth on my neck and one of his hands beneath my top.
We have been making out for ten minutes. His jeans are open. My hand is inside them. He has already reached towards the nightstand for a condom, which suggests Jason believes the evening is progressing beautifully.
My other hand is already on his neck, pulling him closer when my phone lights up again beside his pillow.
Jenny: waited 12 mins. he didn’t even text.
Emergency.
Girls being publicly humiliated outranks oral sex. This is basic triage.
I pull my hand free and reach for the phone while Jason continues kissing beneath my ear.
Maddy: WTF?????
Maddy: I’m so sorry. Did u leave?
Jenny responds immediately.
Jenny: yeah. left.
Jenny: should never trust a man who says “let’s see where the night takes us”
Jenny: apparently the night took him somewhere else
Reasonable.
Jenny: also saw ur proposal for 247 Gym
Jenny: I’ll ask my brother about Mike
Jenny: did u secure the photographer?
Jason kisses down my collarbone. His thumb pushes beneath the edge of my bralette, attempting to remind me that he currently has breasts available to him.
Unfortunately, I also have a two-thousand-dollar campaign available to me.
More accurately, it is potentially happening next Wednesday, and everything currently depends on whether Lucy—a girl I met once during a psychology study group and immediately followed on Instagram—has properly confirmed the shoot.
Sex can wait. Capitalism cannot.
“Hold on,” I tell him, angling the phone away from his face. “I have to answer this.”
Jason makes a low sound against my throat but does not complain.
Good temporary-man manners.
I type quickly.
Maddy: Photographer pending, aim to lock Wed 12–3.
Maddy: Sent her the concept. I’ll forward the contract tonight so u can look.
Please recognise my achievement. I have just written two complete business messages while a very attractive man is grinding against me, without making a single typo.
Women can have everything.
Then I remember the other logistical issue.
Maddy: Picking u up 11.30 if we’re shooting. Got my car back so we’re free!!!!
Jenny: cool
Jenny: I’m going home to have a bath and hate men
Maddy: want to crash at mine?
Jenny: no. need to be alone.
Jenny: ur not alone though are u
Maddy: with Jason
Three dots appear.
Jenny: JASON?????
I do not get the opportunity to answer.
Jason takes the phone from my hand and puts it facedown on the bed. “Emergency over?”
He presses me firmer onto his lap before I can respond. My knees settle on either side of his hips, and his mouth returns to mine while he presses me against the obvious shape beneath his jeans. He kisses me again, harder this time, his body moving beneath mine.
Usually, this is the part I like.
Jason is extremely hot. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Good mouth. He does not throw around ridiculous dirty talk or begin explaining what he is going to do like he is narrating a cooking instructional video.
He has also been very patient while I conduct business over his shoulder.
I should be into this.
Jason kisses me harder. His tongue explores mine.
Nothing.
Dry as a desert.
Is that the expression? Deserts are obviously dry. Saying dry as a desert feels linguistically lazy.
This is not the moment to workshop metaphors.
Jason’s hips move beneath me. Oh. I can sense a great dick in between my legs.
Still nothing.
I could give him oral sex anyway. I have done that before when I was not particularly aroused. It is easier because my body does not have to provide anything except competent labour.
But I know the difference between my excellent work and my resentful work.
Tonight would be resentful work.
Bad for the brand.
I place my hands on his shoulders and lean back. “Jason.”
His eyes open.
“I don’t think I’m in the mood tonight. Can I take a pass?”
He looks confused rather than angry, which confirms my instincts remain excellent.
He keeps his hand on my waist, but he stops immediately.“Why?”
Now he talks. Great question.
I do not have an answer.
My brain has spent the past week running twelve conversations simultaneously. The campaign, classes, Jenny, Mike’s outfit, the photographer, three overdue readings and whether the juice shop might agree to sponsor runners during winter.
Now it has stopped. No explanation. Just a blank screen and a faint internal buzzing noise.
“I think my period’s coming,” I tell him. “Cramps.”
The oldest emergency exit available to women. That should scare a large portion of boys off.
Instead, Jason glances down in between us and looks interested. “Periods are hot.”
Oh. New information. I place it inside the mental box labelled Things Boys Have Announced Without Being Asked.
“It isn’t the period yet,” I clarify sweetly. “It’s the part before it, where everything hurts and I become homicidal.”
“Oh.”
“Very unsexy.”
“I don’t know. The homicidal part—”
“Jason.”
“Right.” He releases my waist. “Do you need anything?”
He lets me climb off him at the shake of my head.
Good man.
I kiss his cheek, pull my shirt back into place and leave with my phone gripped tight in my hand.
I have excellent instincts for choosing men who are not complete assholes. Lizzie once told me she could read minds when she was six, and I believed her for four years. I suspect the ability may run in the family.
Despite my recreational kissing and occasional oral philanthropy, I have rarely ended up somewhere I felt unsafe.
I grew up surrounded by boys who treated me like a reckless team mascot. They could be disgusting, but they also watched my drinks, drove me home and functioned as unpaid security at parties.
Men can be terrible.
Men can also call their mothers at two in the morning and ask them to hold a drugged girl they have known since middle school.
The drive home gives me twenty uninterrupted minutes to think about Wednesday’s shoot.
It is our first proper campaign. Not a free drink in exchange for one post where I have placed the highlighter in the right spot on my cheeks.
Certainly not a small boutique sending Jenny a dress and having no say in the photographic angle. Two thousand dollars.
Real money.
Real client.
Real opportunity to embarrass ourselves professionally.
I need the shot list. Final deliverables. A release form for Mike. Juice or coffee for the crew. Probably juice, considering the campaign is for a gym and arriving with six iced caramel drinks might undermine the concept.
We are not handling full social content. Absolutely not. Though I was very tempted. Luckily, my girl knocked some sense into me by reminding me I only have ten fingers to type and one head to think.
Jenny and I are two students with essays, classes and a fragile relationship with sleep. We can connect the athlete and business, develop the campaign concept, organise the shoot and provide raw files with recommendations.
That is enough for the first project. Small. Manageable. I have repeated those two words so often this week that they have lost all meaning.
I also need to meet Mike to test his clothes.
Nobody asks me to do this, Jenny in fact thinks it’s unnecessary.
I must see how Mike looks in those clothes before next Wednesday.
The gym requested shirtless images, because apparently people cannot be persuaded to exercise unless a man’s abdominal muscles are suffering nearby.
Fine.
Shirtless.
But he requires pants. We are advertising gym memberships, not starting an account with a monthly subscription.
Black shorts. No visible logo. Long track pants as backup. Maybe grey—
“You’ve eaten?” Will’s voice comes from the kitchen and almost sends my soul directly through my skin.
I startle hard enough that my phone nearly leaves my hand onto the floor.
Will is sitting at the island with one of his aggressively healthy dinners in front of him, watching me with an infuriating grin.
I press a hand to my chest. “Why are you sitting in the dark like a serial killer?”
“The lights are on.”
I look up. Right. My heart is still attempting to escape, but his grin pulls me back into the room.
“Have you eaten?” he asks again.
“Eh.”
“That is not one of the accepted answers.”
“Nah.”
He raises his fork. A piece of chicken is impaled on the end. “Want some?”
I inspect the chicken. The chicken looks back at me with the empty despair of something that died only to be boiled without seasoning.
“No, thank you.”
Will tilts his head. “What happened to the girl who has been stealing my food all week?”
“I was pretending to have discipline and brain cells to be healthy.”
He takes another bite. I drop my bag beside the island and head towards the fridge. There is a container on the middle shelf with GREMLIN written across the lid in black marker. Aw.
I stare at it. Fondly. “You labelled my food?”
“I labelled the threat.”
I take it out and hold it up, delighted. “You made an extra one.”
“I adjusted the calorie numbers.”
Something small and warm moves beneath my ribs. Suspicion, that’s what it is. I place the container in the microwave before it can develop.
While the microwave begins turning, I lean against the counter and realise the room has tilted slightly to the left. Interesting.
“Gremlin.” Will tilts his head.
“Hm?”
“You look like your soul left three exits ago.”
My hand rises automatically to my face. I am wearing makeup, minimal but makeup. The lashes should make me look at least presentable. Perhaps the blush disappeared during the make-out session. Perhaps Jason consumed it.
“You mean pale?” I turn towards him.
“I mean translucent.” He gestures vaguely at my face with the fork.
“What a beautiful thing to say to a girl. Really. I’ve been busy. That’s all.”
“You’re speaking at one-point-seven-five speed.”
“Efficiency.” I shrug, easy.
“That is called making-me-anxious-in-my-own-kitchen.”
The microwave beeps. I reach for the container, but my hand trembles before my fingers close around it.