Screwmates(32)

In fact, I felt it was in pretty poor taste. When you are with your screwmate, you should probably not be bringing up your future conquests. That was my justification for eating half his fries, along with my own. And a burger. And some nuggets. I know you aren’t supposed to tip your Uber guy, but I definitely “accidentally” dropped a twenty in his passenger seat on my way out.

Marc didn’t even say goodnight so much as I just heard noises trailing him as he veered his way from wall to wall on his way to his room.

“Another failed seduction,” I thought, as I took off my grown-up bra and panties and poked my foot around to find the leg-hole of my Hulk underoos. As I missed, overreached, and fell to the ground, I reflected that perhaps it was for the best.





Ten





The next day’s plans involved sulking, pouting, and aspirin—not necessarily in that order. After washing down a healthy dose of all three with a rather unhealthy-sized dose of coffee, I was in a sufficient state of mind to consider the previous night. My strategy had been sound, I was certain, and yet I had not won a battle so far.

Yes, I was starting to think of breeching Marc’s castle walls as a sort of siege. And the living area was about to become the War Room. Seeing as he was in meetings all day of his own, and all.

I threw myself back into the cushions of the beige couch. I had grown very fond of the old guy in our months together. Sometimes it was okay to be boring, if you were reliable and comfortable. Oh, drats, I realized—I was in a long-term relationship with the couch.

It seemed to me that the common denominator in several of the failed seductions was the fact that Marc and I were drinking entirely too much wine. I didn’t believe that either of us was a secret alcoholic, but the numbers didn’t lie. We were guzzling several times the recommended weekly average in every sitting. Because of France. And science.

A little voice in the back of my head wondered if we were self-sabotaging because we were nervous about closing the deal. First I threatened to drown the voice in even more wine, and then I reminded it that even if I was nervous, there was no reason for Marc to be. Not that I was nervous. Much. Just baring my body and soul to the sexiest man I had ever met, and knowing that if it was horrible and I embarrassed myself, I’d still have to look at him every morning. No big deal. Nothing to worry about.

But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? That by exposing the most vulnerable parts of me to the guy who shares my water bill, I’d somehow prepare myself for doing the same thing with a stranger later.

Weirdly, even though that was the whole point of everything, I found myself recoiling a little from the idea of a stranger in my future. I mean, of course I knew that anyone I started dating wouldn’t remain a stranger for long, it’s just that… well, I liked what I already had. Shaking my head, I reminded myself that I didn’t exactly have anything. Except perhaps a touch of social anxiety. Actually, that explained everything.

My tendency to drink a little too much when the specter of sex reared its head, my sudden new desire not to find a boyfriend—I couldn’t believe I hadn’t self-diagnosed earlier. It all made so much sense. I fired off a text to the girls immediately. As per the usual, the replies were mixed.

Scarlett: This explains a lot

Ava: U just need some eggplant emoji lolol

Lizzie: We don’t joke about mental illness sweetie I knew Marc was a bad idea

I both loved and hated my friends. On one hand, I got a perfect cross-section of opinions, but on the other, I got a perfect cross-section of opinions. Disregarding the opinions I didn’t like, I sent my next text to Scarlett alone.

Will I ever get eggplant emoji-d? Maybe I should come to Bible group. Or group therapy. Whatever you suggest.

She didn’t answer for long enough that I wasn’t surprised when the text finally came through.

I’m sorry, but no. To both.

I couldn’t even be truly irritated, because she was right. To both. I made myself a coffee and took off my bathrobe. Did a little work on my Screwmates comic. How did I have five thousand reblogs on the last one? The first few only had a hundred or so. I bet it was a glitch. Or at least a fluke. After all, even with a provocative title like the one I’d used, there was just no way that many people were looking at my work.

Or at least, I swallowed my nervousness down, I hoped there weren’t that many eyeballs on me.

Next I checked my email. Awaiting me was something that was supposedly from an agent, but I know a scam when I see one, so I didn’t open it. An agent did sound really nice, though, so I decided to double down on the webcomic. If I could get a couple more “episodes” inked in advance, I could consider doing a print run.

I mean, I knew it would mostly just sell to friends and family—scratch that. It would never, ever be seen by family. But the girls would definitely buy copies, and I did have a small following locally, enough to justify the cost of a small batch. I could afford to do twenty-five or thirty.

Just the thought of having actual comic books instead of just a website with a bunch of superhero concepts and a handful of characters that looked cool on shirts really energized me. So I got a little carried away and had done several pages when the sound of a key in the lock suddenly startled me out of my zone.

I scrambled for my bathrobe, but it was too late. Marc was already gazing at my Adventure Time pajamas… complete with a Jake the Cat hat.