chapter nineteen
STILL REELING FROM our kiss in the fire truck, I pick up snacks on my way home for girls’ night. A rom-com and a deep-dive risk analysis on the merits of abandoning or abiding by my three-month rule are just what I need right now.
But by the time I get home, Tara and Mel have changed the plans without bothering to consult me. They’re in crisis mode. Tara is “distraught” over her new bob à la Khloe Kardashian, which she’s convinced has ruined her face (it hasn’t). And worse, Mel had an epic fight with her boyfriend. I hide my face in a pillow and dramatically pretend to sob when they announce the new plan to “dance our troubles away” at the club.
Half a drink in, and the reason clubs are no longer my scene becomes oh so apparent. Instead of wearing my trusty Lulus, I’m in a one-piece jumper that’s giving me a perma-wedgie. Wherever I go, my sense of smell is assaulted by a mixture of B.O., heavy perfume, and the rose incense diffused throughout the velvet-wallpapered space.
Mel and Tara are in their element, dancing and flirting with strangers, acquiring enough free drinks to render them halfway eligible for a stomach pump.
One of Mel’s friends, Kelly, has met us here. She’s equally as gorgeous as Mel. Asian and tall, almost lanky. Unlike Mel and Tara, who are dolled up in four-inch heels and dresses plastered to their skin, Kelly is wearing Birkenstocks and a baggy T-shirt that reads NOPE, paired with silky pajama-like pants that do not match in any way, shape, or form. It’s ratchet as hell, but I dig it.
Apparently, everyone else does too. Even though Kelly isn’t flaunting her assets, she’s attracting the attention of literally every guy in this club. They’re descending on her like moths to a porchlight. She’s one of those girls who emits this welcoming, free-spirit, manic pixie vibe but will crush your heart all the same. She probably leaves a trail of salty tears and broken hearts wherever she goes, which is fitting, because she’s a travelgrammer.
Even though I’m being a miserable wench keeping a watchful eye over the proceedings, I’m pleased Tara is letting loose. After breaking up with Seth, I wasn’t sure she’d ever make a full recovery. Watching her slow-grind against a guy who looks eerily like the Weeknd gives me renewed hope.
Mel pulls me from my safe space on the sidelines and onto the crowded, sweltering dance floor, nearly sploshing me with her rum and coke.
“I’m fine here holding the purses and making sure you guys don’t get roofied,” I explain, hoping my mom mode will ward her off.
“Come on! You’re being a buzzkill!” she shouts over the house music, slapping me square on the boob.
I sigh, appeasing them for a couple songs. As I sway awkwardly to the music, I’m having a hard time understanding how I used to do this on the regular back in college. Dancing with Tara, Mel, and Kelly isn’t the problem. It’s everyone else that I can’t stand. Everywhere I step, I’m shoulder to shoulder with twenty-year-olds aggressively fist pumping. Do they even know the origins of the fist pump? Unlikely. They were literally ten years old when Jersey Shore premiered on MTV.
I’m officially done when a guy with a rattail grabs my waist, even after I turned him down politely on three separate occasions. He’s shamelessly relentless. One of those creatures who don’t understand the words “I’m not interested.” I’m like a bird in flight, taking refuge in a random booth across from a couple in the midst of a sloppy make-out session involving a lot of tongue and groping hands everywhere.
As I soberly observe everyone gyrating on the dance floor from the safety of the booth, all I can think about is how I don’t want any stranger, good-looking or not, to touch me right now.
In fact, the only person I want to hang out with is Scott, who, ironically, was merely an infuriating stranger only a month ago. Despite the short time we’ve known each other, the level of effortless comfort between us makes it impossible to imagine what it was like when I didn’t know him.
I look forward to turning over, bleary-eyed in the early morning, reading Scott’s texts, especially his random messages while he’s on night shift and I’m sleeping. The odd time when there isn’t a text from him, I feel a smidge of disappointment.
I can’t stop thinking about the way Scott’s dimples appear at the slightest smile, the glint in his eyes when he looks at me, how he doubles over with laughter at the smallest things, how easy it is to open up to him about anything, from the serious to the ridiculous, and how nice it feels to be in his presence, even if we’re not saying anything at all.
Rage-chugging the remainder of my sour drink is the only thing that remotely helps expunge invading thoughts of being with him in the fire truck today.
My feelings for him are confirmed when his name appears on my phone. I instantly light up, spellbound and humming with electricity, as if someone has just turned on the twinkle lights.
SCOTT: Just got off a call at this lady’s house. Guess how many ferrets she had in her apartment.
CRYSTAL: One too many?
SCOTT: Higher.
CRYSTAL: 20?
SCOTT: 23!!
CRYSTAL: WHAT???
SCOTT: Right? Disgusting. *GIF of immaculately dressed Tim Gunn flicking his dainty wrist in disgust*
CRYSTAL: Ferret people are weird.
SCOTT: Yup. A girl in my school had one. She brought it for show-and-tell one day in fourth grade. She let it eat out of her mouth . . . haven’t looked at a ferret the same way since.
CRYSTAL: Lmao.
CRYSTAL: Guess what? I’m at a club with Mel and Tara.
SCOTT: A club?
CRYSTAL: Yeah. They’re grinding on the dance floor right now with randoms. I’m just here to spectate and ward off the creepers.
SCOTT: Why aren’t you out on the D floor too?
CRYSTAL: I was . . . then a guy with a rattail ruined it.
SCOTT: Want me to come kick his ass?
CRYSTAL: How kind of you to offer. But I’m good. I prefer being a wallflower.
SCOTT: Haha I don’t blame you. I can’t stand clubs.
CRYSTAL: Really? I imagined it would be your hunting ground. Your natural habitat.
SCOTT: Wow, you make me sound like a massive creep.
My phone vibrates from his call, so I duck into the bathroom.
“Hey,” I yell over my ringing ears, even though the bathroom is ten times quieter, aside from the flushing of toilets and the squealing of two drunken girls sharing a stall.
“Do you still think I’m a huge fuckboy?” he asks.
I lean against the sink. “I never said that. I’m just sayin’ . . . You look like a Marvel superhero. I’d think someone who looks like you would take full advantage of your genetic gifts.” I make my voice light and teasing, remembering how upset he got the first time I falsely assumed.
“Superhero, huh? Someone once told me I look like a Hemsworth. I’m better looking, though.”
“Don’t get too cocky,” I tease him. “You don’t have the Aussie accent to heighten your sex appeal.” He merely has strong, protective biceps I want to curl into until the end of eternity. But no matter.
“Well, blimey,” he says in an awful fake accent.
I shudder with laughter as I catch my reflection in the smudged bathroom mirror. I pat down my now frizzy hair. “Scott, that was British, not Australian.”
“Oh, shit. You’re right. Guess I should stick with my Midwestern accent.”
“It suits you.” I’m cut off when the two drunk girls emerge from the stall screeching about a “bitch” named Brittany.
Before we hang up, I promise Scott I’ll call him when I get home. It’s sad how eager I am to talk to him again.
Luckily, things pick up after I emerge from the bathroom. The girls and I find a more tolerable spot to dance, and by the end of the night, I’ve nearly lost my voice from dramatically singing (screeching) “Wrecking Ball.”
I call Scott back the moment I kick off my heels when we return home.
“Are you in bed now?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just climbed in. Are you?”
“Yup.”
Silence. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking, that I really wish he was here. My breath quickens at the mere thought of the warmth of his body beside mine. Aside from the fact that I’ve physically resisted the urge to climb him like a tree at every opportunity, particularly when he’s in all his muscled glory at the gym, I undoubtedly like him. A lot.
In fact, he’s my favorite person. Hanging out with Scott is always light. Even when one of us is in a particularly bad mood, we’re clutching our stomachs in rip-roaring laughter fifteen minutes later. Laughter is a staple when we’re together. I don’t think anyone else has ever made me cackle to the point of tears and stomach pains, as if I’ve done an entire ab-ripper routine. And whenever he’s not around, I miss him.
I want to be with him. Every time I see his face, I nearly lose my resolve, just like in the fire truck. The more I think about it, the more I’m starting to realize how different he is from Neil. Looking back, Neil talked about Cammie constantly. I knew deep down he was still in love with her, but I chose to ignore the signs. And yet, Scott doesn’t ever talk about his ex, unless I bring it up. And he doesn’t dwell on it for long.
Maybe this could be different. What am I waiting for? Why am I delaying the inevitable?
I draw in a breath, readying myself to declare To hell with the rebound rule. I don’t want to wait anymore with gusto, until he interrupts my train of thought.
“I have a very important question to ask you, Crystal Alanna Chen.” His tone is dead serious.
I swallow nervously, staring up at the ceiling. “Mm-hmm?”
“Do you sleep with your socks on or off?”
I snort, unable to stifle my laughter. “Obviously off. What kind of sick individual sleeps with their socks on?”
He lets out a dramatic sigh of relief and pauses for an awkward second. “Uh, my ex-girlfriend, actually. It was kind of a deal breaker.”
“Is that the real reason you ended things?” I try to keep my tone light, even though I’m taken off guard that he’s brought her up without my prompting.
“That was a factor. But besides how things ended, we didn’t click. It’s hard to describe. She was really great on paper. Had everything going for her. But then I’d make a joke and she wouldn’t really get it. Different sense of humor, I guess.”
“Is humor important to you?”
“Always.”
“Why?”
He pauses for a moment. “My grandma always said you should laugh at least once a day.”
“I love that.” I turn onto my side. “What was she like?”
“Hilarious. She had one of those infectious laughs. Like . . . even if you were having the worst day, she would just laugh and make everyone feel better. One time the whole family went to visit during the summer when I was eleven. She served the entire family yogurt and berries, but she replaced the yogurt with mayonnaise.” He begins to laugh and it’s pure nostalgic joy.
“That is so genius. What a power move.”
“Oh yeah. It was great. My oldest sister got sick all over their living room.”
I smile, reveling in the sound of his laughter. I could listen to it all day. And there’s no reason I shouldn’t. Just say it. Before you chicken out. “Hey, Scott?” My voice cracks.
“Yeah?”
“I was thinking, remember that rebound rule? What if we—” A strange break in the line cuts me off. “Hello? You there?”
“Shit, sorry, Crys. I’m getting a call. Gotta go.” His tone is rushed, almost frantic.
My face twists in a mixture of worry and confusion. “Uh, okay. ’Night.”
The line goes dead.
What just happened?