Chapter Twenty-Six

- That Summer -

Dear Diary:

It was a dream. It was all just a very bad dream.

I wasn’t an insomniac with eczema-ravaged skin and chronic belly aches. I slept like a baby, my skin was clear, and apart from the occasional butterflies that started appearing from nowhere, I was unaware I even had a stomach.

I wasn’t a washed up failure in the eyes of the music industry. I was a fairly successful artist who had songs in several major motion pictures, one of which was a number-one box office smash that earned me mentions in People, Billboard, and Rolling Stone.

I wasn’t being crushed under the weight of my credit card balances. I was a conscientious consumer who went through a rough period, but through hard work and diligence was now on top of his finances.

I wasn’t a drone working for peanuts at a dead-end job that was only a dead-end because I hadn’t pursued advancement. I was a young executive at a multi-multi-million dollar company, trusted to establish and run a brand-new department designed to make the company even more money.

I wasn’t a loser wandering the face of the earth alone because he didn’t know how to co-exist with another person in a close relationship. No, I was the guy with the girlfriend that other guys looked at and asked their friends why all the idiots get the all hot chicks.

I wasn’t a coward, nor did I shy away from tough choices. I was fearless, exuding self-confidence just shy of being cocky. I believed in my opinions and offered them freely.

Mostly I was not, at my very core, a sad person. Once more, I was deliriously happy and I had things to live for. Many things.

It had all been just a very bad dream and every morning I woke out of it a little more.

•••

Weddings and funerals bring out the best and worst in people. Add to that list dating someone that everyone else had set his or her sites on.

We didn’t make a big deal out of going public. No inter-office memo went out, no formal announcement made. But if questioned, we freely admitted to our acquaintance. It was interesting to watch the news slowly unfurl throughout the company.

The girls were balanced between catty and supportive. Ex Ass gave me a tight hug and wished me happiness. D-Girl took a wait and see attitude. Oddly, it seemed to me, there was a bigger variety of reaction among the male staffers. Sound Guy wasn’t alone in his pursuit of New Girl. Evidently I was the lone male heterosexual in the place who wasn’t actively trying to get into her pants. Hell, I was definitely the only guy, hetero or homo actively avoiding getting into anyone’s pants. It’s funny how things work out. The Projectionist and I had always been friends, and friends we would stay. Once I told him I was in a relationship with New Girl, he and I silently agreed to avoid the subject for the time being and remain civil. Other guys surprised me with some boorish comments.

“You’ve already had a wife,” one Sour Grape chastised me. “Why don’t you let someone else have a chance?”

“Whoa,” I said, as if the word could halt an ass from being an ass. “We’re dating, not engaged. And you make it sound like she’s mine to give away. Maybe you’ll have better success if you rethink that strategy.”

“Oh yeah? What was your strategy?”

“Actually, I didn’t have one. If was any of your goddamn business, I’d tell you that it was she who asked me out.” That just pissed him off more. Good.

My favorites were those blissfully unaware or uncaring of whom she was seeing. They would shamelessly hit on her right in front of me, often interrupting personal conversations. Better still were the guys who, when she was safely out of earshot would inform me of their plans to expertly fuck her, or make inelegant speculation on the hidden details of her anatomy. For once it wasn’t me with the size 10-D mouth. I got more than one awkward “Sorry, dude” those first few weeks, after some lamebrain got the news flash. She appreciated that I could laugh it off.

“It doesn’t bother you?” She asked.

“Nah,” I told her. “It’s just guy talk.”

“That’s a relief. Most guys I date seem to get weird, usually right after three months.”

“Weird? How?”

“You know,” she said, searching for the words. “All clingy and jealous.”

“Why three months?”

“I don’t know, but it’s like clockwork. Three months and they turn. It’s strange.”

Not as strange as that conversation. I took notes and filed them near the front of the drawer. In movies they call that telegraphing or foreshadowing. The lead character’s special talent breezed over in the main titles shows up at the end of the movie to be used as the device that saves the day. Or the quick glimpse of the innocuous kitchen knife that turns out to be the pivotal clue in the murder case. You can use the information to your advantage if you see it and see it for what it is.

I said it before -- if you listen, women will tell you everything you need to know about them right up front. When a guy thinks a woman “just went crazy” on him, it’s only because he didn’t listen early on.

“Can I fuck you?” the man says.

“Blah, blah, blah,” the man hears from the woman.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“Can I fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Is there anything else you needed to say?”

Now he can hear you. Historically, I never listened to women even after I’d fucked them. This time would be different.

•••

It took a while to get my new department up and running. There were approvals to get signed, office space to free up, and procedures to define. Without going into the boring details, I was to take my innate ability to translate between the administrators and the creative/technical people and turn it into a formal clearing center. Administrators, with their dangerous amount of technical knowledge were prone to mistakes when ordering things from labs, which wasted a lot of money. My job was to work with the staff, guiding them through the process and keeping as many dollars in our accounts as possible.

On the flip side, the creative and technical people were notorious for dropping a film like a hot potato once they got wind of new employment -- such is the mind of a freelancer. They would leave little to no organization of the negatives, sound reels, and thousands of other items that are generated in the course of movie making. That task fell onto me also. Get them out of the loop and they wouldn’t have to fake it anymore. Conceived by my once former, now once again Boss, it was a brilliantly simple idea. My only problem was dealing with the time lag in getting out of my old situation and into the new. My Old New Boss and I really needed to hash things out soon, as my new department was going to be working closely with hers. Some interaction was inevitable. Early in my last week under her, her assistant moseyed over to my desk with her organizer in hand.

“What’s your schedule like this week?” she asked.

“Busy. New department and all.”

“Are you free for lunch?”

“I’d really like to,” I misunderstood, “but you do know that I’m seeing-” She cut me off.

“Get over yourself.” She motioned to Old New Boss’s shut office door. “She wants to take you to lunch before you leave the department.”

There was no avoiding it.

“When is she free?” I asked. The assistant scanned the organizer.

“Today and Friday.”

I considered my options. Fuck it -- I was a man of action and might as well get it over with.

“Today. Where and when?”

Old New Boss picked a spot far away from the office, which required that she drive. There was no avoiding that, though I suppose I could have taken a cab. We both took a long look at each other on the way. I almost asked her if she was thinking the same thing as me, but held my tongue in fear she wasn’t. What I was thinking was how you never look at a person the same once you’ve been inside them. It’s the last social boundary between two people. Once crossed, it’s crossed. We’d made that crossing and forfeited all physical privacy between us.

My eyes followed the line of her leg all the way to the top. Where previously I could only fathom a guess, I now had intimate knowledge. I knew the shape and texture of the venue between her legs. I remembered how heavy each of her breasts felt in my hand. I could still taste her saliva. The information was forever mine. She could never revoke it, no matter how desperately I’m sure she wanted to.

As odd as it felt to share that intimacy with someone to whom I should have maintained a certain distance, that knowledge set my mind at ease about others: specifically, centerfold models. I just realized that I didn’t hold that same detailed familiarity with the models that roamed the streets of my neighborhood. Any photograph, however explicit, was still on the other side of that personal boundary. I could never know the feel, smell, or taste of the models unless I found myself in the very right place at the very right time. At last, I could breathe easy and jerk off again.

Boss sensed what I was doing and tried to coax me out of the gutter with inane chatter. I lasted through about thirty seconds of awkwardness.

“Sorry -- I can’t make small talk,” I interrupted. “We need to talk about what we need to talk about.”

“You’re right,” she said, and then let the car fill up with silence.

“I’ll start,” I offered.

“No. Please let me. I just need a second to gather my thoughts.” She paused and bit her lip before speaking again. “What we... what I did last week was very inappropriate. I know better than that, and any problems I have outside the office -- there’s just no excuse.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “It’s no secret I have more than my fair share of problems. I know how they can take over.”

“All the same,” she continued, “I just want to say that despite my... the poor way I handled myself, you should know that I think you’re a terrific guy and under better circumstances...” she trailed off. This time I let the car go quiet. She hadn’t been thinking what I was thinking at all. Good thing I kept my mouth shut for once. I searched for something to alleviate the silence.

“You know, as much as I appreciate this promotion,” I told her, “it wasn’t necessary to get rid of me for us to work things out.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“You didn’t?”

“You got the job on your own. I told them I hated to see you go, but I wouldn’t stand in your way.”

“Then you didn’t tell anyone about last week?”

“Are you insane?”

Perhaps. Maybe I hadn’t given her enough credit. She certainly didn’t seem any more fucked up than me. She was probably just a little closer to the edge that one day, if not only a little more intoxicated.

That lunch talk turned into a very long and heartfelt conversation that cleared a lot of air. She was an exceedingly sad person who felt trapped in a relationship with someone she didn’t love. Her queries about the end of my marriage were numerous and more probing than ever before. She deserved that I not hold anything back. I spared no detail recalling the events that led up to 3b’s infidelity and our separation. The frankness of our conversation felt a little icky as it skimmed across dating and sex. After our last encounter, I wanted to avoid those particular subjects, especially if it would in any way lead to another misunderstanding, but she was up for it. I turned off my governor and she never flinched. We shared a few war stories and showed each other our scars. It felt good to rouse those sleeping demons and talk about them in their presence. Old New Boss showed a keen interest in my relationship with 3b in the aftermath.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Like a motherfucker. Pardon my French.” My French didn’t faze her.

“How do you handle it?” She asked. This conversation was between friends now. She could manage some unprocessed truth.

“By doing stupid things like having sex with my boss.” I was very careful not to tenderize my language and use the phrase “making love.” Even so, I think that comment gave her a taste of comfort.

She was equally forthcoming about her own fuck ups. Her attraction to me was genuine, and she felt overwhelming guilt about cavorting while still in a relationship. She shared my fear of losing control of her life. I gave her the same advice I gave Ex Ass about settling matters at home before stepping out, and told her how much I appreciated that she was evidently one of the only executives at the company who had an issue with abusing the boss/employee relationship. By the time we finished a second cup of coffee the air was downright breathable.

“So, I hear you’re dating someone at the office.”

“Word gets around, doesn’t it?” I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of New Girl. God, the tattoo should read, “Dope face,” not “Hopeless.”

“How long have you been seeing her?”

“Couple weeks.”

“Oh.” She did some quick math. “Just one more thing to feel good about myself for.”

“Don’t even,” I reassured her. “You couldn’t have known. No one did.”

“Is it serious?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s too soon to tell.”

Returned to the office, there was one last awkward moment between us. We’d just shared some quality personal time that was all about us not getting personal and she wasn’t sure where to put the period on the conversation.

“Come here,” I said and gave her a tight but just friendly hug. That was the first time I dared give a superior an order. Man, The Balls were indeed back in town.

•••

I was given two male assistants: at first just the Tall Straight one, but later, when the workload got oppressive they would add the Tall Gay one to my staff. I had no say in the matter. Being that I was new to this part of the business world, I didn’t question it. Given my druthers, I’d have preferred the dynamic of a female assistant, but these two would work out just fine and would probably protect me from myself. As if.

The smartest thing you can do as a boss is hire people under you who are ultimately better qualified than you to do the actual work of the department you oversee. It’s the right thing to do because it increases the odds your department will do good work, which makes you the hero. It sucks, though, because you have to keep an eye on your staff to hinder their upward movement, lest your superiors learn of their talents and you lose them, or worse. I suppose I understood that rule back then, but I didn’t follow it. It was just my day job. If the guys on my staff wanted to strut their stuff around the company, it was fine by me. I even talked them up in management meetings.

My ambitions were elsewhere. And though dormant for a considerable time, they were starting to peek out of the darkness to check if the coast was clear. Things were going so well in all the other aspects of my life, I felt like I could take a punch again. The thought of having another crack at artistic greatness (I lie -- it’s always been about money and chicks) no longer sent me into convulsions or rushing off to the therapist.

Deadlines are the only reason I ever get anything done, and this has never been an exception. I forced the issue by calling a club and booking my first real show in a year. There -- it was done. Now all I had to do was reassemble the splinters of a band available to me and write some songs.

As in every step of my career, I was a little too far ahead of the curve. Years before indie records meant anything, that’s what we (I use ‘we’ because, control issues aside, it’s always been a group effort for me) did. Long before college radio made millionaires out of lazy-ass musicians, we went to the top of college charts. And while everyone else was putting out records swimming in echo and reverb to jelly the sound, we recorded a CD of bone dry, in-your-face production that got buried by record labels that didn’t know what to make of it. Of course that production style became de rigueur not long after. So now, before any of the numerous roots-inspired acts that have sold millions of records even existed, I was writing pop rock songs with a tannic flavor that the fans loved, but yet again, the industry didn’t know how to handle. Imagine how I’m going to feel when the people who make their living marketing Emo bands ignore the emotionally gut-wrenching songs in this diary.

Damn, but I can’t write songs when I’m happy. Luckily, I had years of files and notebooks available to conjure up some good old anger and hurt. Things were going too good to be depressed. I say that like it’s a bad thing. But it was all so easy. My life glided like ball bearings in fresh white grease and I could only attributed it to New Girl’s influence.

Effortless was the best word to describe her. Effortless and supremely confident, I should add. It all came so easy to her.

“What do you want to do this afternoon?” I’d ask.

“Let’s get some cold chicken and beer, and have a picnic,” she’d say just like that. Cold chicken and beer -- it was exactly what I wanted. And I didn’t even know that’s what I wanted, but it was perfect for that moment. That was how it went with her -- always in the moment.

Some people dwell on the past, so nothing is ever as good as it used to be for them. I tend to put all my chips on the future, which negates everything that came before. Not till I just wrote that down did I see how ridiculous that is. Either way, you’re not living in the present, and that’s we’ve got -- the here and now. A single second of time can change everything. You have no control over what happens on either side of it.

New Girl had either mastered the skill of living in the moment, or was born with it. She was never concerned that a moment as good as or even better than this one would not come along -- she knew they would, so she was free to enjoy the one she was in. And she always acted like wherever she was, that was the place to be. When we talked, even in a crowded room, her focus was on me at all times. She never considered that there might be something better happening somewhere else with someone else. I identified that trait in her immediately and envied it appallingly. Not so much that I didn’t let it rub off on me, though. The more I immersed myself in each moment, the freer I became. My concern for the future waned that summer. The calendar I kept in my brain shrank from several years-at-a-glance, to maybe a single day, if I was feeling particularly responsible. I stopped constantly looking over the people’s shoulders and started looking everyone in the eye and paying close attention to their conversation. And I could spend hours doing the most mundane shit with her. Helping her paint her nails while a dumb sitcom droned on in the background -- scintillating. Sorting laundry -- thrilling. One hot afternoon she vacuumed her floor in her underwear. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, studying every movement of every muscle. I probably made her feel a little creepy.

We sort of, but not really, fell into kind of, but not quite a routine during the weekdays. She felt bad that I had to take the bus to work, but it would have been stupid for her to pick me up in the morning. Her apartment was just a bit west of the office. My street, Beverly Glen Boulevard, was much further west. We would need to get up at five a.m. to accommodate her morning routine, and then stop at my place so I could change. That would have been ridiculous. So on the mornings after the nights we spent together, which were growing in number, I’d get out of bed before her, drive her car back to my place, shower, and return. She’d have showered and dressed by then, and we’d head into the office. Not keeping a change of clothes at each other’s apartments may have been inconvenient, but it kept both of us from freaking out.

•••

“This is stupid,” I said as she searched for a parking spot on the roof of the garage at work.

“What is?”

“Why are you parking up here in the hot sun, when I have a perfectly good parking space on the second level, in the shade?”

“That’s your parking spot,” she argued. It wasn’t a very strong argument, but I appreciated her concern.

“And the brand of car I drive isÉ” Sarcasm wiggled its way out of my mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“And what do I owe you for this?” She asked. I grinned.

“We’ll take it out in trade.” She wheeled back down to the spot where a shiny new sign was inscribed with my name in bright red letters. From there it was mere footsteps to the entrance through the stairwell where she had broken down in tears those months ago.

“There,” I said, holding the door open for her. “Isn’t that better?”

“That’s why I love you.”

“You what?”

She kissed me and said, “You heard me,” and then headed down the rectangular hallway that ran the perimeter of the building.

I most certainly did hear her. Her words fucking freaked me out, they did. The words came out of her mouth as effortlessly as when she first suggested we start this affair. Those fucking words drove me crazy for days. They seemed so natural coming from her. Did they mean nothing to her, or was she feeling as good about things as me and was simply more comfortable expressing herself? I had no way of finding out. I dare not ask her. We were nowhere near three months -- I wasn’t about to get clingy on her already. Don’t ask me where I found the clarity of mind to think that thought. My brain was still on shaky ground. I was not without resources, however. Separately I consulted Very Dear Friend and Asian Mix on the subject.

“Do NOT ask her,” Asian Mix cautioned, echoing Very Dear Friend’s sentiment from an earlier conversation.

“But what do I do?”

“Nothing,” she said, lingering on a French fry late one night. I could watch her eat French fries for the rest of my life. Her oral fixation could wrap itself around a sliver of deep fried potato like nobody’s business.

“Nothing?”

“Nada.”

“But what do you think it means?”

“I think it means she loves you.” She slapped the ketchup bottle’s ass, hard. “But you make a big deal out of it, you might scare her off. So just go with the flow.”

I sighed and helped myself to some of her fries. Flow, indeed.

On my friends’ advice, I relaxed and went with New Girl’s flow -- sort of. Secretly I kept track of how many nights we had been spending together and made sure to break it up by sleeping at my place, alone.

I will not come on too strong.

I will not come on too strong.

(Just a mini-mantra.)

It seemed to be working. I got pretty good at paying attention and reading signs. Not just hers, mind you -- I was perfectly capable of getting freaked out by spending too much time with her. Someone had to monitor me, and I was the only person I knew who could do the job. Balance -- it was all about maintaining balance. It’s just like driving. You always have to look a little ahead so you can anticipate hazards. But just like driving, I couldn’t predict everything. We had our share of ups and downs that came out of nowhere, like some dumb kid chasing a ball into the road from between parked cars.

For instance: the birthday party for one of the computer geeks that we attended. Horrifyingly, we were the first to arrive, and it took more than an hour for the next guests to show up. That was one scary hour for all concerned, as we all feared we were going to be this poor guy’s only party guests.

“There is no way I’m leaving before somebody else gets here,” I whispered to New Girl while our host fetched us a couple beers. After my birthday party letdown, I was not going to bail on him. We passed the time doing Mr. Whippets with the birthday boy. You can kill a lot of those things in an hour. After half a dozen or so other guests arrived, we made an unnoticed retreat to my place. By the time we got there, we were in hysterics and could not stop laughing. We were having a ball -- giggling, and ripping off each other’s clothes, and kissing, and tickling, and Wiener wouldn’t stay hard to save my life.

Do you need a minute to read that again? Good, then I can move on.

“I am so sorry,” I’d try to tell her in all seriousness. Then a pocket of CO2 would explode in my brain and I’d be laughing uncontrollably again. If it’s got to happen, it might was well be like this. Otherwise, I’d have been crying. Eventually Wiener was able to regain his “composure,” if you will. We’d benefit from more foreplay, and just as Wiener made himself at home, New Girl would start her own laughing jag that halted the festivities till she could recover. This went on for hours till we finally passed out, exhausted from laughing so much. The next morning, we made brutal, reassuring love -- twice for punctuation. The irony of that being the ‘up’ was lost on me, until I had to deal with the ‘down.’

I shared the funny part of the story with a buddy at work. The morning-after part was of course nobody’s business. That Friday, a number of us convened at the Coronet for the six o’clock usual. Curly never popped in. That saved me from one explanation I didn’t care to get into. Most of the work gang was there. Even Projectionist showed up and exchanged some casual conversation with New Girl and me. Everything was going so well for us, she couldn’t have cared less about how he handled things when they dated. Then the ‘buddy’ I confided in did a magic act and turned into the Great Diarrhea Mouth in front of New Girl, making a joke about Wiener’s performance anxiety.

“You more than anyone,” I said, trying to control the damage later that night, “should know how important it is to have friends to talk to. It was only a few weeks ago you showed up at my doorstep unannounced because you needed to talk to someone.”

“That’s different. I was not discussing our sex life with a stranger.”

“And you don’t do that with any of your girlfriends?”

“Not at work!”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is my girlfriends don’t spread the intimate details of our relationship around in public.”

“It wasn’t like that, I swear. There was never any locker room talk, certainly no bragging, and no details.”

“It sounded very detailed to me.”

“It was that one story and it was only about me and only that one time, I promise.” I couldn’t tell if she believed me, so I added, “Obviously, the guy’s an idiot for bringing it up at all. I didn’t know he had that little tact. He’s pathetic.”

“He is that,” she agreed. That was a good sign.

“I promise I will never, ever tell anyone -- especially Diarrhea Mouth -- the details of our sex life, or anything personal,” I said sincerely. “Whatever happens between us stays between us.”

She pursed her brow and let out a sigh.

“You promise?”

“I swear on a stack of anything you want that I will not discuss our personal business with anyone.”

“You better not.”

And aside from maybe this diary, which is published for the entire world to see, I never did.

We had some really great sex that night and the next. One night after that, to my horror, lightning struck a second time. Or rather, Diarrhea Mouth did. Just like all events in my life that year, the Universe refused to believe I could learn a lesson the from only one example and just had to pound it into my skull at least once more in case I missed it the first time around.

On first meeting, most people assumed that one of my closest friends in the company was gay. In truth, he was exceedingly Not Gay and had bagged more secretaries than anyone. He never boasted, but every conversation with him added a new name to his roster. By this time, however, Not Gay and his saucy French wife held a small house warming at their new condo. Diarrhea Mouth showed up, so I took the opportunity to explain to him that what I had told him was in strict confidence and bringing it up in front of New Girl was not cool at all. He appeared to understand what I was saying. He even nodded his head. Later, he approached New Girl and me to prove that he hadn’t understood at all.

“Well, then,” he said, thinking it would earn him a laugh, “I suppose I shouldn’t mention how your Fuck Buddy blew you in the office on your birthday, huh?”

Oh, sweet Jesus, tell me he didn’t actually say that. Tell me he didn’t actually say that out loud and in front of my girlfriend.

Well, you’ve got to have a first real fight sometime and it’s got to be over something. This was ours.

“She’s a child!”

“She’s an adult -- a legally consenting adult.”

“You should know better,” New Girl scolded.

“Hold on,” I said. “First and foremost, I did nothing to solicit her that day.”

“You took advantage of a vulnerable girl.”

“Vulnerable? Are you high? She’s not vulnerable. She’s a young woman in complete control of her sex life. If anyone in this equation is vulnerable, it’s me.”

“You?”

“Please. If you didn’t think I’ve been in a delicate spot, then you weren’t paying attention when I told you all the gory details of my marriage falling apart.” That didn’t go over very well. The tension was rising, but it was really important for me to be right about this and make sure she knew I was right.

“If anyone took advantage of someone vulnerable, it was you,” I said.

“Me?” That raised the flame enough to get her steaming.

“Yes, you. You knew the condition I was in when you told me you wanted to have an affair.”

“You chose to do this!”

“That’s my point. So did she. She made the choice on my birthday. We’re all adults here. I just happen to be the oldest one.”

“Then you should act like it,” was the last thing she said before she stormed out of my apartment. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t sleep at all. I just sat up all night stewing.

Upon my arrival at the office the next day, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. Instead of entering the hallway right away, I ducked out to the parking garage. Her car was in my parking space. How pissed could she be? I went back into the staircase and up another flight to the third floor cafeteria for some coffee. Just as I got out of the stairwell, New Girl rounded the corner and almost slammed into me.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No,” she said, adding a long pause. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” She paused again and took a breath. “You’re right. We’re all adults and we make our own decisions.”

“Maybe I should know better,” I allowed. “This past year has beenÉ Most days I don’t know which end is up.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve been through a lot.” We just stood there for a moment, breathing. “And maybe,” she added, “I did take advantage of that a little bit.”

We locked eyes for a minute and then suddenly she gave me the most tender, passionate, and lingering kiss ever -- right there, in the hallway. I wasn’t prepared for that at all, but I was damn glad to get it.

“I’ve got to get to my desk,” she whispered. “Will you come over tonight?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.” I spun around to watch her walk away. Way at the other end of the hall, Fuck Buddy had been walking toward us, watching. New Girl had seen her over my shoulder just before she kissed me. Ah-ha! She walked a few more paces then turned around and raised her eyebrows at me, making sure I knew that I had just been sprayed. That was so adorable. My heart went pitter-pat the whole day. Shortly after New Girl left the vicinity, Fuck Buddy got to me.

“You guys are so cute,” she said, oblivious to what had really just happened. Maybe she was a little young and naive.

“You think?”

“She really likes you.”

I wanted to do something special for New Girl. The best thing I could come up with was two things that I would in fact not do: I would not mention to her that her spraying me was totally lost on Fuck Buddy, and I would not say more than hello to Diarrhea Mouth ever again.

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