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I stare at myself in the mirror as I brush my hair. The early afternoon sun dances across the vanity and reflects off the mirror. I haven't cried since Cash drove away three days ago. Not once. I should be crying, right? Cash is in Europe. The boy I've been madly in love with for four years dumped me. Well, maybe I dumped him. Whatever. The dumping was mutual. Why haven't I cried more?
Four years are gone. Down the drain. Over. Dead. Just a memory.
He chose his parents over me. He chose Europe over me. He chooses everything over me. I don't know why I'm surprised. Maybe because I still believe Cash is a good guy. He's still kind and gentle and steady. He always showed up with flowers on my birthday and Valentine's Day and just because. He's never forgotten an anniversary. He answered when I called. He drove me everywhere. Everywhere. He was the epitome of a dutiful boyfriend.
He loves me. He said he did. And I still love him.
But it's over.
So, why haven't I cried more?
I should be crying, right?
"Ingrid!" I hear Mom yell from downstairs. "There's a... a boy here to see you!"
I grab my bag and roll my eyes. I dated Cash for four years and Wilder was always our third wheel. He's also our neighbor and has been for the past six years. At this point, it's just embarrassing she doesn't know his name. Then again, I've made it a point not to let the words Wilder Cox escape my mouth around anyone with the Winthrop last name. But I guess since we're friends now—or frenemies—it's time Mom learns his name.
"And that," Wilder's voice carries up the stairs as I race down them, "is why they call me Wild Cox."
I slap my hand to my forehead. He did not just tell Mom that story. I'm mortified for him. For me. For Mom.
"I'll be home by dinner," I yell over my shoulder as I grab Wilder's arm and yank him out the door. I drag him down the porch as fast as I can, hoping Mom doesn't put two-and-two together.
"Where's the fire, Blondie?" Wilder asks as I tug him to my car with force.
"You can't tell my mom that story," I groan.
"But everyone thinks it's hilarious," Wilder whips his head back in confusion. "Everyone."
"No," I shake my head as I unlock my car door. "Teenage boys think it's hilarious."
"That's... " Wilder trails off, realization striking him like lightning. "Oh. Yeah. I can see why that might be true. I probably shouldn't mention my legendary nickname to your mom."
"You think?" I raise my eyebrows at him before we both get inside the car.
"Unless she wants to take a ride on Wild Cox," he gives me a devilish grin.
"You are ridiculous."
"Tell that to Olivia-Sophia," he claps back.
When Wilder lost his virginity sophomore year to the senior Homecoming Queen, Olivia-Sophia (yes, she has two first names and they're hyphenated), he bragged about it for months. Months. Eventually, Olivia-Sophia's friends found out she'd been hooking up with Wilder in secret and asked her why she was sleeping with a sophomore. Olivia-Sophia replied, "They don't call him Wild Cox for nothing."
And so, the legend of Wild Cox began.
Girls have been flocking to get a peek at Wilder's massive member ever since. I've never seen it myself, so I can't confirm or deny if the legend of Wild Cox is true, but Olivia-Sophia was willing to risk her reputation for Wilder's colossal cock. He doesn't have much of a personality. One can only assume what he lacks in social interactions, he makes up for in bedroom antics.
"You thinking about it?" Wilder whispers as I put the key in the ignition.
"Thinking about what?" I glance over at him as he widens his eyes. "And don't be creepy. I can't be friends with Creepy Wilder."
"Thinking about Wild Cox," he says as he flashes his eyebrows at me.
I exhale as I grip the steering wheel in my hands. "If we're going to be friends—"
"Frenemies," Wilder corrects me.
"We need to establish some ground rules," I propose.
