Gross.

“Only a fool would pass up an opportunity like that,” is the only thing I can think to say.

Other phrases that come to mind that I don’t have the lady balls to say: Where is the real JB and what have you done with him? and You are a freaking idiot and Why are you still talking?

Better yet, why am I still sitting here listening?

I’m the moron, not him.

What I should do is haul my ass up out of this booth, put on my damn jacket, and walk out.

So that’s what I do.

I press my palms against the wooden table, the pads of my fingers landing in something unidentifiable and sticky, and push myself up to stand.

“Know what, Jack, I really think I need to get going.”

He flips his phone over and checks the time. “Already? It’s been like ten minutes.”

I check the time on my phone.

Eight.

It’s been eight excruciating minutes.

“It might have been longer if you’d shown up on time.” I can’t help mentioning it since he never did.

“Are you seriously pissed because I was late?”

“No. I don’t even know you—and in hindsight, you actually did me a favor.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

I slide one arm into my puffy coat sleeve and then the other, bending to zip it. “If you’d been on time, I probably would have sat here longer trying to find something we might have in common when it’s clear that there’s nothing, which would have wasted more of my time.”

“So? It’s not like you had better shit to do tonight.”

I pause. “That was a really rude thing to say.”

“Hey, look—I’m just hungry. I know you like food, so let’s order something. Don’t you love tacos?”

No. I don’t even like tacos.

“I don’t think I’ll be staying. Sorry.”

“Really? You’re going to leave?”

“Yeah, JB, I really am going to leave.”

“How can I change your mind? Want to go back to my place?”

That gives me pause. “And do what?”

The nerve of this guy!

“We can have drinks there.”

“Oh, is that what you call sex? Having drinks?” I use air-quotes around the last two words and roll my eyes, pulling my gloves from my pockets. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not thirsty.”

Thirsty.

There’s a word no man on this earth has ever called me before.

Definition of thirsty: eager to get something, desperate, desperate for attention.

I ignore the hard knot forming in my stomach and the urge to lean over and smack the stupid smile off his dumb mouth. I ignore the desire to begin verbally sparring with him, knowing he will win, knowing I don’t have the stomach to be snarky and it would fly over his head like a helium-filled balloon anyway.

“Have a great night, Jack.”

Not.

I hope his night is shitty. And that he can’t get hard later when he’s jerking off because he came here to get laid but didn’t.

Asshole.

Abe

“Hey asshole. That co-ed you set me up with tonight was the definition of frigid bitch.”

My roommate lets the door slam behind him, kicking his shoes off against the wall, and I let my eyes roam over his outfit.

“Did you just come from the gym?” Why the fuck is he dressed like that?

“No, dude, I came from McGuillicudy’s.”

“From your date?”

His brows crease. “Yes.”

“That’s what you wore?”

“Ask me one more stupid question,” he says, showing me his back as he strolls into the kitchen and yanks the fridge open.

“Jack, tell me that is not what you wore to meet Blue.”

“Who?”

Jesus.

“The girl you had a date with tonight.”

“She said her name was Skylar.” He sounds affronted, like she lied about her name when, in fact, we hadn’t even known what it was. “Why did you call her Blue?”

Skylar.

Now the moniker BlueAsTheSky makes so much sense. I roll this new information about her around in my head.

Skylar, Skylar, Skylar…

Damn. I can’t stop saying it in my mind.

“Her name is Skylar?”

“That’s what she said it was—was she full of shit?”

I ignore his question. “And that’s what you wore on your date with her?”

“It wasn’t a date—so what if this is what I wore?” JB looks down at his hoodie, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I went straight from the gym.”

“You look like you don’t give a shit.”

JB shrugs, stretching his shoulders and rolling the knots in his back. I hear it pop. “Because I don’t. I’m not there to make conversation.”

“Then what the hell is it you’re doing?”

“You know I eventually want a girlfriend, but sometimes all I want is to get laid, bro.”

“Which one was it tonight?” He knew this girl was the serious type; he said it himself—he’d seen her cardigans and knew she wasn’t the kind of girl you nail and bail.