“Leave a voicemail.” I turn on the music, preventing any further conversation.
I drive fifteen miles over the speed limit this time, and I don’t stop at any red lights.
The quicker I can drop her off, the better.
Twenty minutes later, when I pull into her driveway for the second time tonight, I consider getting out and opening the door for her. Until I look over and see that she’s changing my name in her phone again. I’m not listed as “Ugh: Cocky Bastard,” anymore.
I’m now Unsympathetic Asshole (Do Not Call Ever Again).
On the one hand, it’s an improvement from the names “Fuckhead Hayden (I Hate Him)” and “Definitely Has Syphilis” from last week, but not worthy enough for me to be a gentleman.
“Okay then,” I say. “You can get the hell out of my car now. I’ll pick you up on Saturday for practice, unless you find a new study buddy by then. Try to make sure that he doesn’t have a girlfriend first.”
“That’s a low blow,” she says. “Even for you.”
“I can say much worse than that, trust me.” I point to the door. “Only one of us has attempted to be cordial these past six months. Spoiler alert: It hasn’t been you. Double spoiler alert: It won’t be me after tonight.”
“There’s no need to be cordial when you’re a huge part of the reason why Travis agreed to leave me here,” she says. “The fact that he was ever willing to take any advice from someone who flaunts ‘bros over hos’ as his personal motto has never made sense to me.”
“I’ve never said ‘bros over hos.’” I lean over and push the door open since she’s not moving fast enough. “I may have said, ‘Put me over pussy’ a few times, but that’s none of your concern. Once again, now is the time for you to get the hell out of my car.”
“Gladly.” She steps out. “I need to hurry up and shower in case I caught one of your STDs during this ride.”
“You know what?” I’m done playing nice. “That’s exactly why your boyfriend cheated on you. He got tired of your bullshit in the bedroom since you probably kept asking about STDs every time he fucking breathed on you. I bet he wanted to date someone who actually knows which hole his cock goes into, someone who doesn’t have the body of a twelve-year old boy.”
Her jaw drops to the ground.
“Let me know if I need to pick up a Sex 101 book for you the next time I’m at Walmart. I’ll even highlight the important anatomy parts if you like.”
“Fuck you, Hayden.” She slams the door shut.
I roll down the window, feeling a sudden need to get the last word. “You’re welcome for the ride home, Penelope.”
“No, thank you.” She glares at me. “I’ll never call to ask you for another one.”
“That’s more than fine. I’ll never pick up the phone for you this late again.”
“In the meantime, try to clean out your car. It smells like unsatisfied pussy.”
“How would you know? You can’t even find yours.” I roll up the window a bit—ready to pull off and leave her standing there fuming, but her lips begin to move.
“I hope your dating app fails and you lose every dime that you’ve ever put into it.” She looks right into my eyes. “I don’t even know why you, of all people, would attempt to build something like that when your idea of a relationship is fucking every woman you see. But I guess that’s why you haven’t gotten anywhere on it in two whole years. Maybe you should’ve stayed in college after all. Everyone isn’t meant to be like Mark Zuckerberg, especially not you.”
We glare at each other for several seconds.
Deciding not to continue this argument, I reverse out of the driveway. I’m determined to call Travis first thing in the morning and tell him that this little arrangement is over.
This “help” is far beyond best friend duties, and I can’t deal with it anymore.
I’m done dealing with Penelope.
An hour later, I’m walking down the candy aisle of a 7-Eleven—armed with enough Monster energy drinks and Skittles to get me through a weekend of work on my dating app.
Contrary to what Penelope said, I’ve made some progress with it over the past couple of years; it’s just been slow.
There’s interest from investors, but they’ve all told me the same thing: “It’s lacking heart,” “Come back when you figure out what’s missing,” or “There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on…”
I grab a box of donuts before making my way to the checkout counter. As I pull out my wallet, my phone buzzes with a new text message.
Penelope.
* * *
Travis’s Little Annoying Sis: Just so you know, I’m not sorry about anything I said about you earlier.
Me: I’m not sorry about the shit I said to you either.