Just My Type of wrong guy

Prologue – Alex

I’ve already realized that I need to be careful

because you’re the right type of wrong guy.

All you have to do is show up...

and I’ll lose my speech and mess everything around.

Garoto Errado - Manu Gavassi

Sleeping with the wrong guy can ruin your life, we all know that.

But no one warns you that sleeping with the right one can ruin your dreams, your plans, and your heart just the same. At least in my case.

I met A.J. Fortin seven months ago, when I was invited to open for the Vicious Bonds – the world’s most famous boy band – in Brazil, and if I had to define A.J. in one word, it would be: cool.

He’s such a cool guy that, despite his misguided attempts to get with me, when the tour left Brazil and went to Portugal, we got closer.

By the time we got to Spain, we were video game partners, and when we left France for England and Ireland, we were already friends…

Buddies , as if he had never tried to get with me, and we barely remembered the fact that he hit on me the day we met.

At the end of the European tour, we were supposed to head to the United States, and A.J. offered me a room in his apartment until I got settled. That day, I didn’t see any problem with it. After all, we were friends.

But if we’re friends and just friends , why did the sunlight wake me up on the living room couch with my right hand intertwined with his, him sleeping on the floor beside me, one day after the biggest drinking spree of my life?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, sure that this is just a nightmare.

But my head throbs, and I blink a few times before releasing his hand, letting his fingers slide to the floor.

The sun blinds me, just like the hangover clouds my memory, and I carefully get up, because nobody needs the drama.

Especially not us, who work so well as friends.

I place my hand on the leather couch arm and step my left foot between his legs. I give a slight push to the couch to place my right foot a bit farther, and I manage to balance myself on the coffee table, despite everything spinning underneath me.

The almost imperceptible sound caused by the friction of the metal foot of the table against the wood makes me squint for a few seconds.

But A.J. breathes deeply and rubs his long hair on the pillow, still lost in the dreamland.

I smirk and look down, realizing that – even though last night’s a blur – I’m glad he joined me to drown my existential crisis.

And with that smile on my face, I look at his whole body and realize he’s wearing boxers.

Nothing. But. Boxers.

My hands rush to my body instinctively. As flashbacks of the two of us – laughing, drinking, joking, playing charades, truth or dare, and rolling on the floor together – flash in my mind, I feel the long, comfortable sweatshirt covering my body.

I sigh in relief, stepping back, but stop, horrified, in front of the TV when my reflection makes me sober up and blink four times. The band’s logo is printed on my shirt, and the only thing underneath is a pair of panties.

A tiny pair of panties.

“Good morning?” The whispered voice makes me jump, and my neck turns toward the sound to find A.J. Fortin stretching in all his glory, with his hair cascading down his shoulders and his abs, looking like they were photoshoped, now on display as he sits.

He smiles with a squished face, oblivious to the information I’ve gathered in the last few seconds.

“How much did we drink last night, A.J.?” I ask, even knowing that he doesn’t know the answer, because there are bottles of beer and drinks on the coffee table, with a few cups scattered around on the floor too.

“A lot, I think.” He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Why are you wearing the tour shirt?”

“Why am I wearing this, A.J.?” I ask, trying to make him realize we have bigger problems. “Why are you naked ?” I emphasize, as if it were his fault. As if somehow shifting this responsibility onto someone else would erase the fact that I lost control.

“I don’t know.” He retorts. “Is there anything you wanna tell me?”

I hold my chin for a few seconds, because this can’t be real.

“Me? Tell you?” I laugh, crossing my arms. This is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. “You’re the one who said we should drink, clear our heads, and now…”

“You think we…?” The question dies, and I can’t even think about it without my stomach twisting like the crumpled paper from a Christmas gift.

“You think so?” I ask back, and he jumps up.

With an exasperated sigh and a look filled with mockery, A.J. grabs the waistband of his boxers, pulling it away to examine the internal contents.

“It looks exhausted…” He shrugs, and my mouth forms a perfect “O” with my shock. “But I’m not sure if it’s from the daily grind or because we exercised.”

“Shut up, Anthony!” I scream, raising my right hand. “I told you I was weak with drinks, and now I wake up naked in the living room of the guy who said, ‘It’s going to be okay, I’ll take care of you.’ Great help!” I yell, pointing my finger at him.

“You were the one who made all those Brazilian drinks!” He accuses me. “But calm down. Probably nothing happened. We’d remember. I’d definitely remember if I’d slept with the most incredible girl I’ve ever met,” he assures, walking toward me to try to calm me down.

“Not today, A.J., not today.” I stop him with my hand on his chest and take a step back.

I can’t believe I was so stupid and let someone else take my focus away.

Now we’re hungover, with no memory, and even though we don’t know, even though we don’t remember, I’m sure that nothing, ever again, will be the same.