The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I've only got a few more days until my parents drive up with the rented U-Haul, and I head back home to the seemingly quieter, cooler coast. Even though the summer heat is already getting to me, making me crave two iced coffees per day instead of only one or two per week.

     I pick at the white string fraying inside one of the many rips in my jeans. The bus stops short, and I send the girl sitting beside me a small smile in apology for almost stabbing her with the long green stem of the fake, plastic sunflower in my hand. I've already gotten enough stares walking with it on the bus. The last thing I need is to take an evil eye out.

     My back is wet with sweat from the sun, the walk to the bus, and now the hot bus seat. It doesn't help that my hair is down. I reach back and gather the long frizzy brown strands, twirling them around a few times, while keeping the stem of the flower clutched between my knees because I'm hoping to answer the rest of my questions, all starting with the word "why."

     I come up with a few more questions as I clomp up the two stories worth of steps to Jack's apartment. The first, is I wonder if everyone can hear the echoes of my white sneakers clomping or if it's just in my head. The second, is I wonder how I usually climb these steps without feeling like I'm running out of breath, but the answer to that is easy. I'm usually hookup high. The third, is I wonder what Taryne was thinking, and maybe even drinking, when she bought this top. Not because it's cropped, light pink, and ribbed, but because it even fits me a little too snuggly. The only reason she gave it to me was because it couldn't fit "everything god gave her," as in "you're flat bread so at least you'll get to wear it." But I'm more like decent sized apples that in the right lighting and right top still get just as many double-takes and glance backs.

     The fourth question comes when I'm finally standing in front of Jack's grey door. I lift my hand, but suddenly contemplate the act of knocking. I don't want to sound urgent, but I also don't want to sound too casual. Question number five is, why the hell am I overthinking? I bang my fist three times against the door only to be startled by question number six, what the hell did I just do?

     I drop my hand and wait. I shift my posture over from one side to the other and wait. I clutch the fake sunflower between my hands like a wedding bouquet and wait. I ditch the bouquet, going back to running my fingers over the paper petals and wait. I look from side to side before reaching my fist up and quickly knocking again. But again, I'm left waiting.

     He could be sleeping, or watching T.V. too loud, or crunching on some potato chips. Or he could have saw me, somehow at some point, and has decided not to answer.

     "Laney?"

     "Ah—" I clutch my chest as I whirl around.

     Jack shifts the large brown paper bag balancing on his forearm.

     "I'm sorry." I clear my throat. "For barging in like this, but, um . . ." I trail off as I tuck my hair behind my ear. "I got you this." I hold up the fake flower. "Lame, I know, but I couldn't find a real one."

     Jack continues to just stare back at me, only darting his eyes away when he can't seem to find his keys within the large pocket on the side of his army green cargo shorts.

     "Look," I start again. "I know I don't deserve it, but I was hoping we could talk."

     He steps towards the door, so I step back. His face is blocked by the paper bag as his hand jams the key into the silver lock. My hands fall back down to my sides as he pushes open the door and walks inside.

     Question number seven is, what I should do with this fake flower, but I don't find the answer because Jack holds the door propped with his foot and passes a glance back.