When Sparks Fly

“I’m sorry I attacked you with your hobbyhorse,” number seventeen says.

“And I’m sorry I called yours a cheap knockoff.” Number twenty-three seems appropriately chagrined by his juvenile insult.

I force a smile. “There. Doesn’t everyone feel better now?”

Honestly, no one would believe the weirdness I deal with on a daily basis.

I hang around for a while to make sure the situation is under control before I head to the mani-pedi-waxing appointment London so graciously set up for me. I have no idea how she managed to get me in with no notice, but I suppose I’m somewhat appreciative.

I feel a little bad about leaving my sisters with all of those apparently high-strung hobbyhorsers tomorrow night, but I’m hopeful I embarrassed them into submission and that they’ll behave themselves.

Once I’m at the appointment, I almost instantly regret it. I’m not awesome at stillness at the best of times. Add in the discomfort of someone picking at my nails and my eyebrows and ripping hair out of my lady bits—I’m not sure what the purpose of that is since there is zero chance I’m letting Brock into my pants on date number one—and I’m practically crawling the walls by the time I’m done.

I have to admit, my nails look nice, though. I didn’t want anything too vibrant since I usually keep my nails completely naked, so the woman convinced me to go with a French manicure. And once the redness around my eyebrows calms down, I’m sure they’ll look good too. Hopefully.

2

CHILLING WITH MY BESTIE

AVERY

It’s almost eight by the time I get home. I live in a high-rise, two-bedroom condo complex in a bustling area on the outskirts of Colorado Springs with Declan. We met during our freshman year in college, and he, along with our other two friends Jerome and Mark, made up my primary friend group while there, and we’ve stayed close over the years. It helps that we all moved to the same city after college, as opposed to a few of our other friends who scattered across the country.

We have weekly hangouts when we order pizza and watch sports. Usually it’s soccer, which we all played together in college, but Jerome is a huge football fan and Declan loves hockey, so if there’s a game, we’ll flip between them. They’re my buds and they’ve always treated me like one of the guys. My sisters make up the rest of my circle, but neither of them enjoy sports, so they don’t partake in our sports and pizza nights.

I almost trip over Declan’s running shoes when I walk in the door. I kick them off to the side, toe my own onto the mat, and hang up my keys. I glance at the side table, where a Thor action figure greets me. I give mighty Thor a pat on his plastic head, but I still shout, “Honey, I’m home!” before I pad down the hall to the living room.

It’s a habit I’ve gotten into since we moved in together, in order to avoid being exposed to things I can’t unsee. Once I didn’t announce myself and walked in to find one of Declan’s lady friends riding him naked on the couch while he was half paying attention to the soccer game. I entered the room as he shouted a “Fuck yes!” I discovered mere seconds later that it had nothing to do with the woman in his lap, riding his joystick, but because our favorite team had scored a goal.

After that we created our own Bat-Signal. When the Thor action figure is facing the wall, it’s a sign that Declan has company. For a while, Thor often faced the wall, but it’s been happening a lot less frequently over the past several months.

“Thank God, I need a beer,” is the response I get as I round the corner.

I step into the living room, one hand already on my hip and a bitchy retort on the tip of my tongue. I find my roommate on the floor. He’s wearing navy basketball shorts, and he’s shirtless. Declan is built like an athlete. His abs ripple as he rolls up in a crunch. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and lands on the area rug.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Sweating all over the carpet.” His dark hair is wet at the temples, turning it almost black. His chest glistens and new beads of perspiration form and travel in slow rivers between his pecs.

This isn’t a sight I’m unfamiliar with, but he’s usually not shirtless, so mostly I get to look at sweat stains instead of all those cut muscles. My best friend is easy on the eyes. Thankfully, I’ve had enough exposure over the years to his pretty face and his ridiculously impressive body that I’m immune. Mostly. A bit. Okay, maybe 65 percent of the time.