I have no right to be having these thoughts. When I lift my eyes and stare out my bedroom window, the bathroom across the way is dark, the white curtain flapping a little with the breeze since the girls living there have cracked the window open a bit.

BlueAsTheSky: You still there, JB?

I drop my eyes back down to the phone in my hand.

Me: I’m here. Sorry, I was just…

I hit send even though I didn’t finish my sentence.

Me: Staring out the window, LOL

BlueAsTheSky: Fair enough. I just flopped down on my bed. I give up on studying. I’m never going to ace this midterm no matter what I do.

Me: What class?

BlueAsTheSky: Microeconomics. It’s not my finest work. I feel like I end up reading the same paragraph over and over and I’m not retaining any of the information!

My pre-med, biology class heavy schedule isn’t going to help Blue with an economics class, so I bite my tongue and don’t reply…though, as JB, I should technically know some of that shit since technically, as JB, I would have taken it, too.

Everything on my desk is in perfect order. Straight. Tidy. Organized.

Like me.

The fact that I’m wrapped up in this shit is a paradox when you consider that, among my friends and teammates, I’m the trustworthy and reliable one.

The do-gooder.

The nice guy.

The person everyone goes to when they have a problem

or need a ride home at the ass crack of dawn or help with homework.

The one they call when they need to be bailed out after one too many beers has them pissing on the side of a building and hauled into custody for public urination.

I’m the guy they always call.

I’m the guy they go to when they want something fixed, like their car.

Or their love life.

When I was a sophomore last year, one of the guys nicknamed me The Grandfather and the name stuck. I even have a rocking chair in the corner of my room, one they bought me as a gag gift for my birthday back in October. One of the guys found a ratty old afghan and it’s folded into a square, draped over the back.

Ironically, I sit in the fucking thing every so often.

I stand, kicking back my desk chair to pace the room, thumbs hovering over the keypad of my cell.

Me: Any plans this weekend?

No time like the present to be setting her up for a date with Jack. The sooner I can get them together, the sooner I can stop chatting with her. I’ve never gone on this long making small talk with anyone on the app.

BlueAsTheSky: Yeah, I have tickets to see a comedian in the city. I’m driving in with a few friends and we’re gonna spend the night.

BlueAsTheSky: What about you?

Me: I have a wrestling meet on Friday afternoon, but I’m free the rest of the weekend.

At least, I am—I have no idea what JB is doing, but I assume he’d be down for a quick date if Blue was available. They never last very long, anyway.

Personally, I’ll be lying on my bed as usual, a biology textbook open and a movie playing on my laptop.

Exciting shit, I tell ya.

BlueAsTheSky: Guess you’re stuck chatting with me until we decide if we want to meet, eh?

Me: Guess so.

No sooner do I hit send on the message than my bedroom door blows open, Jack Bartlett standing in my doorway, towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping wet.

“Dude. You still fuckin’ around in here? Are you coming for tacos or what?”

It’s Tuesday and I’m starving, and the local Mexican restaurant has dollar tacos from four to five.

“Yeah, I’m just finishing something up.”

His eyes trail to the cell phone in my hand. “You talking to someone in here, Grandpa?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

The yes gets pushed through my lips reluctantly.

“She decent?” JB tightens the knot in his terrycloth towel and enters the room. Holds out his palm. “Give. Let me see.”

I give.

JB scans the bio then the conversation, his mouth doing a weird lilt every so often as his thumb scrolls.

“Why the hell did you tell her I hate being teased?”

“Because you hate being teased.” In any way, shape, or form. Because you’re a pussy.

“You don’t tell girls that shit.”

“Then tell her shit about yourself yourself.”

He ignores me and keeps talking.

“Dude, why are you discussing this garbage? Discuss something else—like music and what her favorite colors are and that other bullshit girls care about. Puppies and shit.”

Colors and music? Puppies and shit? No wonder the guy can’t keep his girlfriends around.

He has no idea what girls want—not that I’m a freaking expert, but I do know enough to know Blue couldn’t care less what my favorite color is. She wants to know if he’s a decent guy. Caring. If he’s going to be her rock, or split when times are tough.

JB tosses the phone on my bed; it lands with a thump. “Whatever. When can she meet me?”

He didn’t read that far. Typical. “Not this weekend.”

“What about during the week? I wanna get this over with.”

Get this over with.

Nice.

“This one could be a game-changer, so don’t be an asshole.”

“She looks boring.”

“No she doesn’t. You’re just not used to girls who are wearing clothes.”

“That’s probably true.” His fingers fiddle with the waist of his towel. “Hurry up and get your shit together—I wanna leave here in ten minutes.”

“You’re the one standing in the middle of my room dripping wet from a shower.”

“Yeah, but it takes me three seconds to get ready. None of this”—he trails his fingers up and down his torso—“requires any work to look good.”

“Fuck off, Bartlett.”

“Fuck yourself, Grandpa.”

My eyes roll toward the ceiling. “Am I driving?”

“Duh.”

Typical.

Skylar

 

Days pass before I hear from JB again. Which is confusing the crap out of me. I thought we were having a great conversation.

One minute we were talking about our plans for the weekend, and the next…

Nothing.

Dead silence.

No explanation—nothing.

This. This right here is why I want nothing to do with dating. Guys pulling shit like this. No respect for the person on the other side, waiting patiently.

Waiting for something.

Give me anything.

Say good morning. Tell me you’re busy. Tell me you’ll get back to me in a few days, but don’t just stop talking to me.

Frustrated and confused, I put my cell on silent and flip it over on the table I’m using as a desk; I don’t want to see the stupid notification if the dumb jerk finally decides to message me.

Deep breath, Skylar.

Focus on yourself and your studying and the fun you had this weekend with your friends.

We laughed our asses off at the comedian over the weekend, and Hannah’s parents were awesome enough to put us up in a hotel so we didn’t have to drive all the way back to campus so late at night.

“Don’t think about that great guy who turned out to be kind of an ass. He even admitted he wasn’t going to turn down the chance to get laid—that’s probably what he was doing this weekend while you were drinking virgin daiquiris and giggling in your cat pajamas.”