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“I’m serious. It’s sort of sad to watch.”
I gave her a look. “Why? Because we’re not declaring our love after thirteen weeks?”
“At thirteen weeks you two should be feral for each other,” she said. “Can’t keep your hands off him. It’s way too early to be this fucking bored.”
“I’m not bored,” I said defensively.
“He’s not bored. You’re practically sleepwalking. This is the fun time, when his penis is all shiny and new. You should have a raging UTI right now. Your PH should be a shitshow.”
“My mom picked men who made her feral and look how that turned out. I’m fine with being rationally in like with someone. It’s safer. Also, I’m happy with my balanced PH. And Mike. He’s a wonderful human. He’s polite to his servers, he tips well, he respects his mom, he has great friends—”
“I don’t know. I just don’t see it.”
“Well, I do,” I said, digging in my purse again. “So I guess that’s what matters, right?”
She stuck a piece of gum in her mouth. “Hey, speaking of friends, what’s up with Chris?” she asked. “Who’s he seeing?”
“Nobody,” I said, pulling out my lip balm. “Not as far as I know anyway.”
“Maybe I should hit him up. I love that nerdy, brainiac thing he’s got going on.”
“I think he’s too nice for you,” I said, twisting the cap off and dabbing some balm on my lips.
She narrowed her eyes over the steering wheel. “I do like a guy with a criminal record…” She smacked her gum. “What do you think about him?” she asked. “Smash or Pass.”
“You want me to play Smash or Pass with Mike’s best friend…”
“Yeah, why not.”
“Because it’s disrespectful.”
She looked over at me with her mouth open. “Oh my God. It’s smash.”
I pulled my face back. “What? No, it isn’t.”
“Yeah, it is. Because if it wasn’t, you’d just be all gross, pass. You wouldn’t argue about the morality of the game.”
“Fine,” I said, tossing the tube back in my purse. “It’s pass.”
“Nope. Too late now. It’s smash. And look, I don’t even blame you. I’d let that guy rub me to pieces like toilet paper in a public restroom—if he had a criminal record.”
I was laughing now.
Chris was cute. He was a little more than cute, actually. But still.
I’d liked the way his hoodie smelled—back when I thought it was Mike’s. Only because I thought it was Mike’s, I told myself.
Like he heard me thinking about him, Chris texted me.
Chris: Woofarine killed a frog today and brought it to me in bed. Come get your child.
I cracked up over my phone.
Me: Pictures or it didn’t happen.
Chris: There. Picture sent. I promise you that frog wasn’t there before.
I choked at the dead frog on his white sheet.
