I hold out the phone. “You almost forgot this.”
“Shit.” She climbs back up to get it. “Thanks. I wouldn’t want you to have to come back here or anything.”
Any sympathy I might have felt dissolves with the sharp bite of her comment. She backs out of the truck and slams the door. I wait until she’s inside before I pull away. As soon as I get home, I check my social media feeds. She’s posted the pic. Her name is Marcie. She’s also posted this:
RBBRs: Forehead kisses are the worst.
She’s referencing a group called the Randy Ballistic Bunny Rejects. Apparently it’s where girls I’ve been with more than once go to swap stories. I stay away from that crap, but I know it exists.
Below the post are a slew of comments from other girls. I recognize quite a few of their names and faces from their profile pics. It’s messed up how my rejection is like a rite of passage.
I nab a beer from the fridge, twist off the top, and take a long swig. It’s too nice to sit inside, so I step out on my back deck, put on some tunes, and relax. That lasts three minutes. I’m not good at sitting around for long. I also feel shitty about what happened with Marcie.
It’s not my fault she romanticized one night, but it never feels good to make a girl cry. I made Lily cry, but that was different, and I think that’s been resolved at this point. I pull up her contact. I messaged her a few days ago and got a response that she was at work. I haven’t heard anything since. Next weekend will be here soon, so I figure it’s a good idea to start a slightly more consistent back and forth. That way I can get a good gauge on whether she’s feeling me or not.
What ru up to?
Her message comes less than two minutes later.
Getting ready 4 wrk. U?
That’s all she ever seems to do.
Drinking beer on my back deck.
The next one comes faster. There’s a frowning emoticon attached to it.
Rub it in y don’t u.
I grin as I type the next message.
I can think of lots of things I’d like to rub on u.
There’s a longer break, and I worry I’ve pushed too far, too fast. I’m about to send a message telling her I’m joking when the dots appear in my feed.
ru trying 2 sext me?
Perfect. This is the exact response I’m looking for.
Maybe. Do u wanna b sexted?
I don’t have to wait long for her reply.
I’m about to teach a class. Not a good time.
My next message is loaded:
When do u get off?
She either misses the innuendo or ignores it.
10.
I can wait.
I’ll sext u then.
Unfortunately, I drink too many beers and get too much sun, so I end up passed out on my couch much earlier than I intended. I wake up at midnight and message Lily, but I don’t hear back after ten minutes, so I assume she’s already in bed or ignoring me.
It’s cool, though. I have all week to sext the hell out of her in preparation for the weekend.
Chapter 6
Sexting 101
LILY
I would like to say I don’t wait for Randy’s sext messages when I get home from work. But that might be a lie. While I’m hanging out in my room… not waiting… I do what I’ve been doing since Randy and I first hooked up: I creep him on social media. It’s not hard to do. His face is all over the place. His pretty, pretty face and his superhot body.
New ones have surfaced today, including a few of him lounging by a pool in a pair of swim shorts. Even relaxed he has a six pack. There’s also one of him with some slutty bunny sitting in what appears to be a car. Her boobs take up ninety percent of the picture. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but they fill more of the frame than mine would.
My stomach does this weird drop thing. It’s the same feeling I used to get when Benji flirted with other girls in front of me. He did it on purpose to piss me off. He also used to point out all the girls with better boobs than me at the beach. I tried not to let it get to me, but I was rarely successful.
Usually we’d end up having a big fight. I’d break up with him, he’d threaten to hook up with some girl, I’d tell him to go ahead, he’d walk away. Sometimes I’d chase him and cry, other times I’d let him go. He’d always apologize eventually, and we’d get back together. I hated the crying part the most. I don’t like to feel weak. Not being with him is so much less stressful.