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Ever since Mark Tensely struck up a thirty-minute-long conversation with Jolie when he swung by to pick up some football gear the other day (specifically the day before I ran into her naked in the hallway—insert fucking fist-bite) he’s been eyeing my best friend and begging for me to hook him up with her number.
Yeah. No.
Perhaps the worst part is that Mark is smart, good-looking, rich, and is actively seeking a steady girlfriend. Unlike Barf-worthy Brandon, he’s actually genuine. The whole package. Me? The only thing I have to offer is my package. I’m swimming in small endorsement deals and have a scholarship, but I’m so far from well off, I can barely fucking spell the term. Plus, Jolie knows about my antics. She constantly tells me that STD stands for Sage the Douche. We joke about it, like it doesn’t worry her and it doesn’t insult me. But the truth is, my string of one-night stands have all ended in disaster recently. Though, even before that, I was starting to get bored with the constant hopping from one strange bed to the other.
Look, I know I’m a hypocritical bastard. I fuck around, but the minute my roommate gets a suitor, I go all Jason Momoa on his ass. But I can’t control it, can I? And if it makes things slightly better, I haven’t porked anyone since Mark made that comment about JoJo. Between throwing him off, dealing with my latest disastrous fling, and jerking off to memories of Jolie’s naked body, sex with strangers is the last thing on my mind.
Thing is, I can’t really relationship-block Mark right now. What the fuck would I say to him? “Hey, listen, man, there’s nothing going on between Jolie and me, but I still don’t want her to date you?” Even I know it’s a solid ten on the Douche-O-Meter. It would be much easier to just say, “Look, bro, I’m tapping that. Why don’t you go ahead and move along to someone less attractive and, I don’t know, less Jolie?”
“Jolie! I’ve been asking you to ask her about me for weeks. Forget it.” Mark waves me off, grabbing a beer bottle from the fridge. There’s a keg right. Freaking. Here. But I guess he’s too rich for Solo cups. “I’ll just ask her out. I see her around campus every Monday at three.”
Over my dead body, bro.
“Get some chill, yeah? I got a lot on my plate this month. I’ll ask her as soon as I get home.” I clutch his shoulder and offer him the most casual smile in my arsenal. Inside, there’s a green angry monster wreaking havoc in my body. If Mark takes Jolie on a date, it wouldn’t be the first time she went out with someone else. JoJo had two serious boyfriends in high school and dated a string of douches ever since we started college. But they all seemed so temporary. Her mind was always elsewhere. School. Family. Even the Pilates classes that gave her that bangin’ body. But this is all going to change at the end of May when we graduate. I know my best friend. Know her well.
She’ll want to settle down.
Find a nice teaching job.
Get married. Have babies. Mark’s babies. No way is she having Mark’s babies. That fucker doesn’t drink keg beer and knows how to tie a tie without looking in the mirror. He’s not the type to run in the mud and rain for her. To climb on trees with her. To sit on the sidelines at school and talk shit about people in codes only she and he know.
I’m that person. I’m her person.
“I’ll deal with it tonight,” I stress again.
“Yeah, okay, man,” Mark mumbles, pupils dilating, and that’s when I realize that I’m squeezing his shoulder super fucking hard. He shakes me off, taking a step back and bumping into two girls who are yelling the latest gossip into each other’s ears over the sound of “Fetish” by Selena Gomez. They both shoot him a pissed look that softens when they notice me. “I’ll text you tomorrow.” Mark points at me. Is this a fucking threat? I don’t owe him shit. Better to get it out of the way, though, than have him approaching her on his own.
“Sure.” I shrug, raising my cup in the air and backing toward the landing. “See you Monday at practice.”
You know shit is going downhill when you find yourself listening to a pop princess and there’s no blowie to stop you from leaving. I turn around and a girl from computer science slams into my body purposely. She does the whole laughing nervously and pretending to be embarrassed charade—sweetheart, I’ve seen this show a thousand times—and introduces herself. I can take her home. Hell, I can even take her upstairs. A month ago, I would have. But tonight, all I can think about is that Jolie is hella bummed about what I told her about Brandon, and I’m bummed about that goddamn tool, Mark.
