Wow.
We're totally vibing. This never happens. Maybe this job was the good luck charm I needed.
"Hi," I murmur.
"Hey," he says.
"I'm Skye." I shrug.
"Neal." He shrugs.
A very long second of quiet passes.
"Hey—" I start, unsure of where I'm really going, but then the elevator swings open, cutting me off.
"Have a good night," he says over his shoulder.
"Yeah, you too," I call after his disappearing body just as the doors are closing.
But hey, I think that went well. I take it for a win. We had a conversation—sort of. Words were said. Introductions were made. That counts—I think.
"Bridge!" I shout when I walk into the apartment.
"On the couch!"
"Bridge," I say, turning the corner into the living room and dropping my bag on the coffee table. "I think the first day went really well."
"Awesome," she says, and then turns away from the TV, giving me her full attention. But she flinches when her eyes land on my face. The flinch turns to a bitten lip. Which then turns to a grin.
"What?"
Now she's shaking her head. God, she's just like her brother.
"What?"
"Nothing," she sputters. "Might want to check the mirror though."
I race to the bathroom, heart stopping as my eyes land on my reflection.
There's a freaking forest growing in my teeth. A forest!
"Crap!" I shout, digging for the spinach that's nestled in the gaps between my incisors. I ate that like two hours ago—why didn’t anyone tell me?
And then I remember the elevator, the boy, the vibing…
No wonder he was smiling!
And the rest of the week passes in pretty much the same fashion. Even though I've never seen Neal in my building before, he's miraculously on my elevator the next morning.
"Skye, right?" he says when he steps on. I smile politely. To which he exclaims, "Hey, you got it out. I wasn't sure if something was stuck or if it was just some weird medical thing. Didn’t want to hurt your feelings."
Weird medical thing? Did he think I had fungus growing in my mouth? Ugh!
There are no words. I just nod and stare at the floor for the rest of the ride. That night I make sure to sneak onto the elevator when he's not around. Thankfully the next morning he's nowhere to be seen and I can rest easy. But that night, I time everything incorrectly and he sneaks onto the elevator at the last second.
"Skye," he says, smiling. But I can't tell if the smiling is cordial or if he's still laughing at the memory of my green, fungus-infested teeth.
"Neal," I force the words through closed lips. I'm too embarrassed to do or say anything else.
I hide in my room all night writing a column about how dating where you live is the worst idea possible. I've been reduced to a bundle of nerves, unsure where and when Neal might show up, heart pounding anytime I walk into a common space. I'm the opposite of a stalker—I'm an avoider. But I have to admit, writing about the experience is a little fun. With help from Bridget, I throw a few R-rated tidbits into the story, and voila—my first sex column.
Victoria loves it.
She makes me rewrite it five times—but she loves it.
And it's finally Friday, meaning I have two blissful days off from the stress. Or I would, except Bridget decided it was high time I learned to flirt, so she dragged me to a club downtown and now I'm leaning over a bar, trying to get the bartender to notice me long enough to order a drink. Looks like the key to my success would be to pull my shirt down by about three inches.
Yeah, not happening.
"Bridget, you try."
Ten seconds later, we have cocktails.
"So, what are we—holy crap, what did you just order?" My entire face spasms as I take a sip of whatever beverage Bridget just bought.
"Long Island Iced Teas," she says with a shrug, easily taking a sip of her drink.
I shake my head. Bridget and I are both creative types, but while studying for my art involved a lot of reading and even more writing—alone in my room I might add—studying for her art involved lots of experimentation—the typical college kind filled with boys and alcohol and things it might be incriminating for me to mention by name. "I thought the purpose of this evening was to teach me how to flirt, not to get me drunk."
Bridget slides her gaze away from the cute guy at the other end of the bar, meeting my eyes pointedly. "The purpose of tonight is to loosen you up in whatever way I can. We start with a little alcohol and then we move onto the rest. Come on."
She grabs my hand, pulling me away from the bar and into the throngs of people pressed up against each other on the dance floor. So not my scene. We weave in and out, pushing people around, being pushed around in return, making our way closer to the music. Finally, we find a small space to claim as our own and hold steady, rocking to the music as we sip our drinks, keeping our elbows out as defense against the dancers bumping into us from all sides. But the longer we drink and the longer we dance, the more relaxed I feel.
And I'll admit, it's fun. Especially when our favorite songs come on—mostly girl-power pop anthems—and we both belt out the words, totally and completely free in the moment because no matter how loudly we sing, no one will be able to hear us.
But then the inevitable happens.
"So," Bridget shouts, but I can still barely hear her. "Let's find some guys to dance with."
My heart sinks.
For a moment I wonder, why? Why can't we have fun with just the two of us, like we normally do when we go out? With Bridge, I know I can trust her. I know I can depend on her. I know we have a great time together. I know she's not a creepy a-hole who'll ditch me as soon as he realizes I won't go home with him. You know, the usual stuff.
But then I remember the column, the research, my desperate search for a topic to write about next week, and I relent.
"Okay!" I shout, nodding to emphasize the point in case she can't hear me.
We drop our elbows, no longer keeping the crowd at bay, and it's as sure a sign as any that we're open for business
Wait—not business. Open for fun? For a good time? For… Okay, there's just no completely innocent way to say this, but you know what I mean! We're available to dance.
In less than ten seconds, a guy comes up to Bridget, grabbing her waist and pulling her close, and she accepts the offer, unsurprisingly. Shall I count the reasons why Bridget is a boy-magnet? I mean, aside, from her dazzling personality of course? Well, number one—red hair. Number two—tall and thin figure. Number three, at least tonight—ridiculously tight little black dress.
Shall I count the reasons why I am not? Well, you probably already know them. Neurotic. Shy. Book nerd. Oh, boys come up to me sometimes, sure, but my usual response is to run in the opposite direction rather than, you know, do something drastic and actually say hello.
Hmm.
I sigh, looking around, dancing by myself, trying to stay close to Bridget and her mystery man so I don't look completely pathetic.
Soon enough, a boy takes pity.
Hands grip my waist, pulling me back into a waiting body. He starts gyrating against my hips, not really to any rhythm I can follow, but I try to just relax and let him take the lead. There's no greeting. No asking if I'd like to dance. No manners.
Is chivalry totally dead, people? Come on.
I turn, peeking over my shoulder, and yell, "Hi."