Chapter 3 It’s Giving… Fuck Boy #3
Suspicion narrows my eyes. “You’re not going to write it down?”
“Trust me,” he says. “I won’t forget.”
I roll my eyes but recite it anyway. “Eight one five—”
“Eight fifteen,” he echoes.
“Four two five. Zero five zero seven.”
He repeats it back to me, perfect. Show-off.
“Impressive,” I admit.
He spreads his hands. “Mind like an elephant.”
“Do elephants flirt with strangers in parks?” I ask.
“Only the tall ones,” he says.
I shake my head, trying not to grin. “I should go. Enjoy your workout or whatever.”
“It was nice to meet you, friend Harlee,” he says, putting drama on the word friend.
“It was… definitely a meeting, August,” I tease.
He retreats a few steps backward, walking toward the court without breaking eye contact like he’s in a music video, then swivels to jog the rest of the way.
Just before he reaches the gate, he turns again. “Hey, Harlee?”
“Yeah?” I call.
“Don’t forget to look up, beautiful,” he says. “World’s dying to see those hazel eyes.”
I swallow, suddenly too aware of my own face. “If I look up, I would stop running into cocky men, huh” I yell back. “Feels uneventful.”
“You can bump into me anytime,” he calls. “Hazard pay.”
I pretend my heart doesn’t cartwheel at that.
I turn and head for the park exit, shoving my earbuds in again. After a few steps, curiosity gets the better of me. I glance over my shoulder.
He’s still watching, hands on his hips, that stupid half-smile on his face like he knows something I don’t.
I face forward again, but his voice echoes in my head all the way to the train.
Don’t forget to look up, beautiful.
By the time I get back to Big Mama’s, my feet hurt, my curls are half-fallen out of my bun, and my brain is soup. The narrow stairway creaks under my weight as I climb up to my little rented room. The air smells like Ivory soap, fabric softener, and fried something from the kitchen downstairs.
First order of business: free the titties.
I unhook my bra with a sigh so dramatic if someone heard it, they’d think I just finished a marathon. It lands in the corner near the growing laundry mountain. I swap my sweaty clothes for a loose tank and soft yoga pants, then flop onto the bed.
My phone buzzes.
Wynter.
I smile before I even pick it up.
I grab my laptop instead, flipping it open so the screen glow washes the room in blue. My sushi takeout sits on the nightstand, soy sauce packet already half-torn. My stomach growls loud enough to answer God.
Just as I crack my chopsticks, the Google Meet chime starts.
I fumble hitting “Join,” a piece of Zen Garden roll already stuffed in my cheek. “Good morning,” I garble.
Wynter squints at me from the other side of the world, curls thrown into a high puff, eyeliner smudged in a way that somehow looks intentional. “Good evening, gremlin,” she says. “Why you chewing like that into my soul? What are you eating?”
“Zen Garden roll,” I say around my hand.
“Plants.” She makes a face. “Couldn’t be me. My food needs to have had a mama and trust issues.”
I laugh, nearly choking. “How was your set?” I ask once I manage to swallow. “Did the melody change work?”
Her whole face lights up. “Bitch, yes. You were right,” she says, because of course she starts there. “Slowing the second verse of ‘Fireside’ and dropping to a cappella at the bridge? It hit. Crowd went quiet. Like, goosebumps quiet.”
“Told you,” I say, dunking another roll in soy sauce. “Your voice is the main character. Guitar was doing too much.”
“I was scared I’d cry if I took everything else out,” she admits, shoulders lifting. “I don’t want to ugly cry on stage unless Beyoncé personally invites me.”
“Your fans can cry,” I say. “You just have to sing.”
Her eyes soften. “It felt like he was there,” she says. “In the front row, like always.”
My chest tugs. I don’t poke at it. She doesn’t either.
“So,” she says, clapping her hands together. “What did you do today? Please tell me you left the house.”
“I did,” I say, a little proud. “Went into the city. Books, coffee, almost had a panic attack about money, very on brand.”
She smirks. “Growth.”
“Oh shit,” I blurt, the realization smacking me mid-bite.
Her eyes widen. “What? What happened? Chicago finally collapsed into Lake Michigan?”
“I forgot I was supposed to meet up with Spence,” I groan.
“Gross,” she says immediately. “I thought you were about to say something important.”
I grab my phone off the comforter, thumb hovering. One missed call. Three texts.
Spence: You still coming?
Spence: I’ll be at my place in 45 minutes, you can start heading this way.
Spence: Pulling up.
The last one was more than an hour ago. I’ve been home in my tank top and panties for at least that long.
A small knot of guilt pinches my chest. Right beside it, something looser uncoils. Relief, maybe.
I drop the phone back on the bed. “Whoops.”
“Reading is a more spiritual experience anyway,” she says dryly. “What were you reading, the textbook of your abandonment issues?”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing. My heart’s beating too fast again. I stare down at my sushi, then blurt, “I… also met a guy.”
She freezes. “Come again?”
“I said I met a guy,” I repeat, suddenly shy. “By accident.”
Her mouth drops open. “Harlee Quinn Prince, do not play with me.”
“It’s not that deep,” I protest, but my cheeks are hot. “I was at the park near that vintage shop I like. I thought I lost my phone. Turned around in a panic and ran straight into this… man.”
She narrows her eyes. “You said ‘this man’ like God handcrafted him on His lunch break.”
I stare at the ceiling. “He was tall. Tatted. Great taste in sneakers.”
“Mhm.”
“Green eyes,” I add.
“Green?” She scoots closer to the camera. “You met a fine-ass anime character in Grant Park and didn’t FaceTime me?”
“I was busy looking for my phone,” I say. “And the whole thing gave fuck boy.”
She throws her head back and cackles. “So he got your sass, your ability to lose your phone and your trauma in one go.”
“Basically,” I say. “We bumped into each other. He apologized, I accused him of stalking me, it was a whole thing. He introduced himself—August.”
“Ooo,” she sings. “Sexy.”
“He noticed my sais tattoo,” I add. “Said Raphael slander would not be tolerated. Still has his nunchucks.”
Her jaw drops. “Stop. Stop it right now.”
“He’s more Michelangelo than Leo,” I admit. “But I’ll allow it.”
“You gave him your number,” she says, like she already knows.
I flick a grain of rice off my chopsticks. “Technically. I tried not to. He was like, ‘Do you have time for friends?’ and I was like, ‘I barely have time to pee,’ and he still… persisted. In a charming way. It was annoying.”
She stares at me. “He took his phone out?”
“He memorized mine,” I say. “Didn’t even pull his out.”
She actually clutches her invisible pearls. “Wow. You joined the trenches.”
“It was easier than arguing,” I mutter. “This way he’d leave me alone.”
“Uh-huh.” She lifts a brow. “You’re doing that thing again.”
My stomach tightens. “What thing?”
“Pretending you don’t want what you want,” she says. “When random dudes ask for your number, you smile, say no, and keep it pushing. I’ve seen it. This one? You’re over here grinning into your sushi talking about how ‘annoying’ he is. That is not the same behavior.”
“It was just… easier,” I say, but the excuse feels thin even to me.
“And then there’s Spencer,” she adds. “Who you were supposed to go see. And ‘forgot.’”
“I didn’t forget on purpose,” I say.
She hums. “Sure.”
“I have Spence,” I blurt, like that explains anything.
She actually fake gags. “For what? Decoration?”
“Wynter,” I snort laugh.
“No, because let’s be serious,” she says, and I find myself waving my chopsticks at the screen like they’re a pointer. “Spencer is the DoorDash of dick. Fast, overpriced, and rarely satisfying.”
I burst out laughing, almost dropping my roll.
“Tell me I’m lying,” she challenges.
I stare at my food.
“Exactly,” she says. “All that height, all that girth, and for what? Wasting God’s structural engineering. Meanwhile you’re over here acting like crumbs are a meal.”
“Maybe I’m just really good,” I say weakly.
“Oh, I fully believe you’re spectacular,” she says. “But if a man comes off some gluck-gluck and can’t rally for round two? Jail. Straight to jail.”
“Not jail,” I snort.
“Yes, jail,” she says. “Prison. Life sentence with no parole. Because if I’m going to put my knee cartilage on the line, we are both leaving this experience blessed.”
I laugh so hard my stomach hurts.
“But that’s not even the point,” she continues, more serious under the joke. “You were supposed to meet him after dinner with his parents, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t want me sitting there being bored while they talk about law stuff, so he told me to meet him at Beans after. It wasn’t—”
“You’re doing it again,” she cuts in.
“Doing what?”
“Making excuses for his fuck boy ways,” she says simply. “He doesn’t want to mix you with real life. That’s a choice. Not a scheduling conflict.”
A little soreness blooms in my chest. “We’re… friends,” I say. “Who happen to sleep together. We don’t have time to be together-together.”
She gives me the flattest stare I’ve ever seen on a human face. “You accept the love you think you deserve, Harl,” she says softly. “And then you dig trenches around it so nobody can offer you better. I just don’t want you clinging to a mistake because you spent so much time making it.”
The words land like a punch I didn’t brace for.
I pick at the edge of the sushi tray. “I don’t want to talk about Spencer,” I say finally. “Can we… not?”
She watches me for a long beat, then sighs. “Fine. But if August texts you, I want screenshots. Front row access.”
“He’s not going to text,” I say automatically.
“Okay, Nostradamus,” she says. She stifles a yawn. “I gotta go get my life together before soundcheck anyway. I love you.”
“Love you back,” I say, leaning into the camera. “Muah.”
She makes a face at my exaggerated kisses, then logs off.
The room feels extra quiet after her square disappears. The old house creaks, the ceiling fan whooshes lazily overhead, and my thoughts immediately try to climb on top of each other.
I shove the empty sushi container onto my closed laptop and flop onto my back, curls spilling across the pillow. I stare up at the ceiling, tracing imaginary constellations in the cracks.
August’s face flashes behind my eyelids. Those green eyes. That easy laugh. The way he said math is a form of art like he actually believed me.
“He’s just a guy,” I tell myself. “A ridiculously hot, annoying guy with dangerous dimples and good opinions about Ninja Turtles. He is not thinking about you.”
I roll onto my stomach and fish blindly across the bed for my phone. My fingers brush the comforter, then air, then catch the very edge of plastic. It skitters away and there’s a soft thud as it hits the floor.
“Of course,” I groan into the mattress.
I shimmy down, hair catching briefly on the headboard. “Ow, ow, ow,” I grumble, untangling myself.
Dropping onto my knees, I reach under the bed until my fingertips find the phone. “Got you,” I mutter, dragging it out.
I climb back onto the bed with the grace of a drunk baby giraffe and flop onto my back, breath puffing out in a dramatic sigh. I stretch my arm up, phone hovering above my face.
Do I really want to open Spencer’s thread and invite whatever lecture is waiting there? All the little digs about responsibility and communication and how busy he is?
My thumb unlocks the screen anyway.
The messages app shows a single red notification bubble.
One unread text.
But not from Spencer.
At the top of the list, above his name, is a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown Sender: So, about those shelves?