Every Saturday

Chapter One

Nate

I don't get girls. Hell, no one gets girls. Why are they always so sentimental? Do they really need to talk after sex? And why the hell do they always try to take my clothes after a night together? Do they just have no concept of one-night-stands? Those were all rhetorical questions, of course. Because Kat or Katie or Katharine - I can't remember her name - is wearing one of my shirts, all while trying to romanticize to me how we met.

Which I find stupid, considering I picked her up at a party, both of use completely wasted.

"Natie," she purrs, rubbing herself all over me, "I think we're meant for something. You know? Like, The Fault in Our Stars, except we don't, like, have cancer." She giggles, and I am seriously annoyed. Mostly because she's wearing my favorite Patriots sweater, and partly because "Natie" is the shittiest name I have ever heard.

She continues to try and fail to reminisce our "love story," while I pull on my jeans and run my fingers through my hair. Most of the time, I try to be a nice guy, so I'm trying to sound as un-irritated as I can when I tell her, "Honey, I think you should leave."

She immediately stops talking about whatever shit she's spewing, and looks at me like she's a nun and I'm Mother Theresa. "Did you just call me...honey?"

I call every goddamn person honey. It's my thing. "Um, yeah. So?"

"Aw," she coos, "that is so sweet. Like, I call you Natie, and you call me honey!" She lets out a squeal and throws her arms around me. Oh, Jesus Christ. She has on way too much perfume, and she smells like chemicals. I'm suffocating under her death grip, and shit, I'm too cranky to play nice.

"Jesus," I grunt, trying to pry her off, "I can't breath."

"But I love holding you," she whines, hugging me tighter. Yup, there is no easy way to let this chick down.

"Get off," I grunt, and fling her onto the bed. She must be really horny or something, because she immediately crouches down into a position that she probably thinks is sexy, but isn't. Why the hell did I even bring her home with me?

"You want to play?" She looks at me under her heavily made-up eyelashes. I'm about to say "no" when I realize that she's got makeup smeared onto my sweater.

"Take off my sweater. Now."

"Oh, so you do want to play." Oh, hell no. I do not want to play. Luckily she listens to me and takes off my sweater.

"Thank you," I grit out and snatch it from her grasp. "Now get off my bed." She grins at me seductively and slowly gets off my bed, licking her lips in a way that's supposed to turn me on. But she's ruined my favorite sweater, therefore she can no longer turn me on. Plus she has on way too much makeup.

She's moving too slowly for my liking, so I pick up her by her waist and carry her down the stairs, to the front door. She giggles stupidly as I fumble with the lock.

I open the door, and she opens her eyes wide. "You want to do it outside?" Yeah, sure, totally. Let all my neighbors know I sleep with ditzy girls whose makeup weight more than they do.

I don't answer. Instead, I drop her unceremoniously onto the doorstep. She lets out a gasp of disbelief. "Natie! What are you doing?"

"Kicking you out of my house," I answer, before slamming the door in her face. At first she's shocked into silence, but then she immediately goes into action. She starts pounding at my door and screaming obscenities.

"Let me in! Let me effing in! Or I'll never bang you again!" Ha. Not that I even want to bang you. And who the hell says "effing," anyways? "You asshole! You are the shittiest dickhead ever! Agh!"