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“I’m a bit fuzzy, so I’ll jump in the shower and then come join you.” Eventually I plan to get my own place, but for now there’s comfort in the predictability of routine.
“Perfect.” She returns her attention to the TV.
I mouth the joke I’ve heard a million times as I make my way upstairs, a smile on my face. I hear low music coming from my sister’s room as I pass, so I knock.
“Come in!” she calls out.
I peek my head in the door. Her room is decorated much like one would expect from a college student. One wall is covered in movie and band posters, another has a whiteboard-corkboard combination affixed to it. Over her desk are four peelable wall calendars, her assignments color-coded for each class and marked by due date. Her double bed sits in the corner, piled with throw pillows that complement the dark blue comforter. The only remnant of her childhood is her stuffed cat, Pumpkin, which was a birthday present from our dad, given to her the year before he died.
Hattie’s long hair is the same as mine, thick and wavy, but it’s a dark chestnut brown instead of auburn. And like me, she often wears it up in a ponytail. But that’s where our similarities end. While I’m softer, like our mom, Hattie is tall and lean, with striking features. Somehow she always manages to look put together, even in a pair of ratty sweatpants.
She spins around in her computer chair and stretches her arms out and over her head, yawning widely. She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Yeesh. Sorry about that.” She glances at the clock on her nightstand. “You’re getting in late.” Her eyes light up. “Did you have a hot date?”
I roll my eyes and motion to my outfit. “Does this look like date-appropriate attire?”
She shrugs. “Not really, but you never know. Leopard print is all the rage. Working late then?”
I lean against her doorjamb. “I had to meet a new cat and his human.”
She makes a disappointed face and motions to her desk, which is stacked with books. “One of us needs a social life, and I’m too busy with school for dating, which means you need to step up to the plate.”
This is a frequent conversation that doesn’t change. I’m busy running a business, and she’s busy with classes. I cross over and sit down on the edge of her bed, picking up Pumpkin. I run my fingers over the satin on the inside of his ear, worn with time and love. “The last couple of guys I’ve dated haven’t exactly made me want to jump back into the dating pool.”
“Are you taking about Microdick Mick or the basement gamer?”
“Both.” I grimace. “And let’s never say Mick’s name aloud again.”
We went out on a handful of dates about six months ago. He was nice to look at, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I suffered through a few extra dates hoping that the conversation would improve. I’m even more embarrassed to admit that I ended up back at his house hoping that the chemistry was better than the conversation. Unfortunately, he had the finesse of a horny teenage boy, and, well . . . it didn’t get better from there. Needless to say, that was the end of Mick.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him up. I know that whole situation was pretty traumatic.”
“Hence the reason I’m not all that keen to get back on the horse and ride.” I point a finger at her. “I mean that figuratively and metaphorically. Also, you’re the one in college, which, if you were unaware, is full of single people looking for a date.”
“Guys in college are immature.” She flips a pen between her fingers. “And going to a keg party is not my idea of a date. I’m hoping that once I’m out in the real world I’ll meet someone with an actual job and life goals that extend beyond leveling up in Genshun Impact.”
“I don’t know how much that changes after college.”
The guy I dated after He Who Shall Not Be Named was a prime example of that. When I arrived at his house to pick him up for our second date, his mother answered the door and basically begged me to never dump her son. Then she took me down to his apartment in the basement. It smelled like feet and cheese, looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in . . . ever, and he’d been sitting on his futon, game controller in one hand, the other tucked down the front of his pants, looking like he hadn’t showered or shaved in several days, yelling agitatedly at the screen and then his mother for interrupting.
I turned around and walked right back up those stairs. I later found out that his mother was the one who set up and monitored his profile. And that he spent ninety percent of his time playing video games and the other ten percent sleeping.
