Chapter 6
Roni
Ishould probably clean up my apartment before I go out with Brad.
The place looks like a landfill. Half-empty coffee mugs dotted with crusty rings.
Mail I may never open in stacks tall enough to play Jenga with them.
And a heap of laundry that’s long since given up hope.
But maybe that’s the point. If I leave this disaster, I won’t be dumb enough to drag him back here.
Not even out of some pitiful, misguided obligation.
Oh, God. He’s picking me up. Which means he’ll be the one bringing be back. And he’ll want to come up to see me in.
Fuck my life.
What if I do give in—if I drink one or six too many and let him convince me to come back here?
Do guys get turned off at the sight of clutter moments before getting some?
I guess I'll never know unless I at least pick up the dirty underwear off the floor. The rest can wait.
I check my phone. Forty-seven minutes before he’ll be here.
I start with the bedroom, because priorities. The sheets are a lost cause—wrinkled and bearing mysterious stains from late-night snacking and who knows what else. I strip them off and hunt for clean ones in the hallway closet. They're white and boring, a gift from my mom, but they'll have to do.
With the bed looking at least semi-presentable, I tackle the floor. I kick clothes into the closet, shoving the door closed before they can avalanche back out. I'll deal with Mount Laundry another day. Or month.
The bathroom is next. I wipe toothpaste splatters from the mirror with toilet paper, hide my embarrassing prescription creams under the sink, and throw three damp towels over the shower rod. Good enough.
Twenty-two minutes left.
I finish touching up my eyeliner, phone glowing on the vanity beside me. I know I don’t have time to waste, but the need to reach out to someone consumes me.
Roni: Girl, why am I so fucking dumb?
Chloe: First of all…
Chloe: DO NOT talk about my bestie that way.
Chloe: Ever.
Roni: No but really…
Chloe: What did I just say?
Roni: Ugh. Fine. I’m sorry. Okay?
Chloe: Better.
Chloe: Now, Babes, what’s wrong?
I chew my lip, the nagging pulse behind my eyes answering for me.
I text her because that’s what best friends do.
Because I already know she’ll agree I’m an idiot without admitting it.
She’s known Brad as long as I have. She’s been yelling into the void for years about how he’s dying to get in my pants.
I just didn’t listen. I was too na?ve. Too hopeful. She never doubted.
“No college frat guy is spending that much time with a female on the friend level.”
Sadly, she was right.
Roni: I’m going out with Brad tonight.
Chloe: You what?
Roni: Yeah…
Chloe: Did you lose a bet?
Roni: Ha. Ha.
Chloe: Is he paying you?
Chloe: Are you a sex worker now?
Chloe: Jesus. How bad is the bean juice industry now?
Roni: Bitch, stop. I’m serious.
Chloe: I can’t believe you think I’m not.
Chloe: V. Roni. Babes. There’s nothing wrong with sex work. We’ve been over this.
Her sarcasm flickers across the screen like neon, and I can almost hear her smirk. I glance at the clock. I’m five minutes late already. But there’s no speeding up Chloe’s roasting.
Roni: I knoooowww
Chloe: Why?
Chloe: Why would you?
Chloe: What were you…
Chloe: Well, okay. It’s going to be fine. You’ve hung out with D tons. Nothing has ever happened. No reason it needs to change now.
Roni: You say that, but he’s just been so…
Chloe: So???
Roni: Extra. He clearly has expectations. I can’t explain it.
Chloe: Okay, let’s plan this out.
At last, the Chloe I need. The one with emergency protocols for my existential dread. I flop onto the couch, phone balanced on my knee, waiting for her next brilliant idea.
Chloe: You can probably get away with just a handy.
Chloe: You can survive that, right?
I groan and my cheeks heat up. Even Chloe’s maximalist sense of humor can’t hide the truth. I’m terrified of what might happen tonight.
Roni: I hate you so much right now.
Chloe: Liar.
Chloe: If shit gets skeevy, text me any random gibberish. I’ll call with an emergency.
I slip my phone into my clutch—a pale pink envelope that feels too small for the mountain of nerves I’m carrying—and stand.
The hardwood floors creak underfoot, mocking my hesitance.
I snag my keys off the coffee table and toss a light cardigan over my shoulders.
My reflection in the hallway mirror catches me off guard: wide-eyed, lip bitten raw, a swirl of panic and resolve in my gaze.
"Is this really me?" I whisper to no one. The woman in the mirror looks put together, despite the anxiety rippling beneath her sundress. I adjust a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind my ear, but it falls right back across my cheek. Stubborn, like everything else about tonight.
"Just dinner," I remind myself. "Just dinner with an old friend."
But we both know it's a lie. Brad isn't just an old friend. He’s the almost was I should have cut ties with years ago. The guy I almost pity fucked, but instead let think there could be a future.
I’m such an idiot.
My phone buzzes inside the clutch, but I don’t bother checking it. I’m sure it’s him.
I can do this. People go out and don’t have sex all the time. I force myself forward, clicking the lock on the door behind me. The night rushes in, cool and electric. Brad’s already here, parked by the curb. He’s fumbling with his phone, clearly passing time.
Here goes nothing.