It was not, I insist. That joke was pure genius.
Ok. It did make me laugh, he types. Per usual.
Usual, I scoff. We’ve seen each other four times.
Want to make it five?
No.
Ok. What are you doing?
Well, that wasn’t the response I was expecting.
Cleaning my guns and researching vasectomies, I type.
My dad had a vasectomy because it made sex a lot more spontaneous, he tells me. My sister told me that on my 21st birthday because I backed into her car.
I blink down at my phone. I feel like I really get your sister, on a spiritual level, I reply.
Luke is an idiot. He is not my type. Why am I still smiling?
I know, I’m actually a little afraid of you two meeting.
So what are you doing tonight? I ask.
Same thing I did last night and the night before that, googling Titanfall cheat codes so I can kick your ass. When is my rematch?
That actually . . . sort of . . . sounds fun. I don’t answer for a few minutes. I walk to the kitchen and throw away my dinner. I rinse out a few dishes and tidy up again. And then I walk back to the couch and without thinking type, 20 minutes. Prepare for annihilation.
* * *
AS I CLIMB the stairs to Luke’s house, I’m overcome with a sense of déjà vu. I’m not here for sex—as I keep reminding myself—but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it since the last time I was here. I’ve never really had a regular booty call . . . is this how it happens?
Not that that’s what this is.
Luke’s street is quiet and lined with small, tidy ramblers, the windows all lit from within. I look around again as I knock on the door. There’s a large pot of daisies near the rug at my feet, and I don’t know which idea I like more—that his sister or mom put them there or that Luke did it himself.
A dog barks off in the distance and I can hear the hum of Luke’s TV through the open window. I know he’s probably in the kitchen from the sound of his steps as they move from tile to carpet and then tile again, and remember that the lock sticks the tiniest bit when you turn it. I have no idea when I noticed any of these things.
The porch fills with light and then Luke is there, smiling down at me. I feel the eye contact in my belly, like the low hum of electrical feedback. Adrenaline seeps into my veins and I consider turning and racing all the way down the stairs. Friends aren’t supposed to make you feel like this.
“Hey, you,” he says, still smiling, and it’s enough to send goose bumps along my skin. Taking a step back, he motions for me to come inside.
He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, and has a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. The house smells faintly of bread and tomato sauce and my stomach quietly growls. I’m ambivalent about Luke being a better grown-up than me, cooking an actual dinner and cleaning it up while I could barely manage to peel the plastic wrap all the way off of my Lean Cuisine.
“I’m just finishing cleaning up,” he says, tilting his head for me to follow him.
His kitchen is bigger than one would expect given the size of the house, and it’s clear he was loading dishes when I interrupted him. I sit on a stool and he turns to me, a plastic-wrapped bowl in his hand. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks. He opens the fridge and sets the dish inside. “I have beer, juice, milk, water, and—”
“Beer’s good,” I tell him. His laptop is open and on the counter and sure enough, a tab filled with Titanfall tips fills the screen.
He reaches for two bottles and sets them on the counter. “You hungry?”
“Not really,” I say, but reach for a leftover piece of garlic bread on a cutting board anyway. I smell it before tearing off a corner and popping it into my mouth. It’s fucking amazing. “Who taught you to cook?”
He smiles. “One: I know how to use a cookbook and I have access to the Food Network. Two: my mom and my Grams. They would kill me if I ordered pizza every night.”
“Pretty impressive, considering you had a fridge with nothing but Sriracha and celery before,” I tease.
He bends to close the dishwasher door and my eyes drag across his body. No, definitely doesn’t look like he’s eating pizza every night.
“There was string cheese,” he says with a smile. “And in my defense, I’d been crazy busy and hadn’t had time to shop. Strangely enough, I’ve had loads of free time this week.”
I don’t miss the subtle dig that I’ve been avoiding him, and wonder if free time means he’s actually been sans companion. Thankfully my mouth is full of garlic bread and I’m saved from asking.
“Titanfall or TV?” he asks casually, removing the tension from the moment. “I think there’s a Buffy marathon on Syfy tonight.”
I’m so grateful for his easy manner right now that I nearly want to launch myself over the counter. And the fact that he likes Buffy, too. Honestly: fuck him.