Her Perfect 10 Read online

  She hangs on me, whining in my ear. “Why’d you do that?”

  “You’d hate yourself in the morning, Kel.”

  She glares at me in response.

  Eventually she turns around, dancing on me like we’re lovers instead of friends. It calls in the guys like a dirty restaurant attracts cockroaches. Hands land on my hips, and I spin around to meet contestant number one.

  Ugh.

  It might be a long night…

  Owen

  It’s Friday, the end of the work week. My nameless partner has been on my mind since last night, when I got her assignment and she insulted my writing again. And then asked for my number. It would be wrong to give it to her. It’s wrong to communicate outside of the assignments at all. We’re not supposed to, it’s outlined in the course syllabus.

  No communication outside the assignments.

  Do not exchange names or where you’re from.

  Do not give any details about your job or your home life.

  We’re to remain anonymous. And this girl, whoever she is, is breaking the first, most important rule as often as possible.

  From the assignment she completed last night, I’m going to say she’s jaded. Also somewhat erotic, at least when describing what she doesn’t feel from the hot dog vender. She’s a misguided friend to the clingy girl in her essay, too.

  And she wants my number.

  Sure, it’s just to criticize my work, but am I cheating on Penny if I give my number to another girl? It feels like I would be. Especially if it’s one I find so intriguing. One that I have something to prove to.

  I’m not boring.

  Am I?

  I mean, maybe I am...but Penny doesn’t seem to mind.

  We’ve been together two years. Penny’s kind and smart. She loves routine, which makes her perfect for me. Her job doing research on different drugs at a big pharmaceutical company makes it hard to get together sometimes. The hours can be unpredictable, depending on whatever project she’s working on. We usually get together at least once a week, though.

  Adjusting my tie, I pull the stiff jacket on over my button-down shirt and make sure I have my wallet and keys. I refold the blanket on the sofa, replacing it just so, to make a perfect triangle on the corner. Then I look over the coffee table, moving the remote control and setting it down in almost the exact same position, just a hair closer to the sofa cushion of my preference. The clock oven is off by a minute. I fix it now, because it’ll be on my mind until I do, and I won’t be back until tomorrow. Penny likes routine, but she rolls her eyes and huffs her breath at how I like everything to be a certain way, which means she never stays here. I always stay at her place.

  When I have exactly enough time to get to her apartment to pick her up, I step into the hallway and lock my door, waving at Mrs. Folston. She always leaves her door wide open to observe all the going-ons in our building.

  It must have been a stressful week for Penny. We usually text a few times between our weekly dates, but she hasn’t responded to anything I’ve sent since before our date last Friday.

  Dinner is always at our favorite place a few blocks over. We’ll take a stroll through the park afterward, if it’s nice enough. Back at her place, we’ll have a drink and talk about our week in the living room, then go upstairs and get ready for bed. In the morning, we’ll sit at the table with coffee and enjoy each other’s company until we part ways in the afternoon.

  Penny’s not waiting for me when I pull up in front of her rowhouse. When she answers the door, I greet her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. She’s not dressed to go out. Her hair isn’t done, she’s barefoot, and wearing her bathrobe.

  “Owen, come in for a minute.”

  Guess our routine is going to get a little messed up tonight.

  She closes the door behind me, and I look through the narrow rooms toward the back of her house. There’s a guy in her kitchen, wearing ripped jeans and a loud band T-shirt. He’s sitting at the table, tapping his foot non-stop and watching me with narrowed eyes. I turn to Penny cautiously. “Is everything ok?”

  “Not really.” She shrugs and scrunches up one side of her face as she stands with me in the living room. “I’ve kind of met someone.”

  She’s met someone?

  That someone is obviously important, and she meant it in the romantic sense. That’s the only time anyone ever says I’ve met someone.

  “I thought I was someone. What about us?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like this, but I forgot what day it was. Umm. You and me? We’re not working, Owen.”

  “I thought things were perfect. I don’t understand…” I look at her, then back at the man in her kitchen, who’s suddenly looking very comfortable.

  “Things weren’t perfect. Things were predictable. Boring.”

  That word. It echoes in my brain, bouncing around endlessly until it feels completely foreign. Until it doesn’t make any sense at all.

  Boring? What is boring? How did I become the definition?

  That word, and the girl I’ve been assigned partner to for that writing class, is haunting me.

  “Things were routine, but you like routine… You said you liked routine, Penny.” I’m totally at a loss as to why this is happening. We were happy. Or, at the very least, content.

  She wrings her hands together, avoiding my eyes. “I like routine at work, Owen... Not in the bedroom.”

  Really? She just told me I’m boring in bed? She’s never complained before. I always made sure she came first, and usually more than once. Maybe our sex life was routine, but it was still good.

  I take a deep breath and unclench my traitorous fists, then let myself out. An argument won’t do either one of us any good, and judging by the guy in her kitchen, she’s already moved on. There’s no point in trying to change her mind.

  Unbelievable. I’m twenty-four years old and boring.

  Correction—boring and single.

  Deciding to be unpredictable, I stop by the Chinese restaurant for something to eat.

  They ask if I want my normal order.

  As I wait for my predictable dinner, I scroll through new recipes on my phone, hoping to find one that’ll help me destress after this crappy day.

  But baking away my lonely nights and emotions is also predictable.

  I need to do something completely different. Something no one would ever expect from me. Something that proves I’m not boring.

  Only I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary I could do that would prove my picture doesn’t belong under the definition of that word.

  Maybe I am boring.

  Chapter 3

  Sadie

  I wake up in Jamison’s bed. Again. That’s two nights in a row and four times in the last month. This is getting dangerously frequent. Time for a restriction.

  No Jamison, for any reason, for at least two weeks.

  After finding my clothes and some of my dignity, I powerwalk home. The cool morning air helps clear my head. By the time I unlock my building door, I know what the problem is. My period’s almost here and I’m more clingy and emotional than normal.

  No excuse. Jamison is a no-go until at least the middle of the month.

  I lock myself in my apartment and pretend to be a good, conservative female by cleaning while jamming out to my favorite playlist. As if I give a fuck about the state of my apartment. It’s getting bad, and my roommate certainly isn’t going to do it—lazy slob that she is—so I guess I’m the lucky winner of the janitorial trophy. Again.

  Terry, the loafing roommate in question, comes out of her room with her hands over her eyes, her hair a total wreck, and a man’s shirt hanging off one shoulder. After turning the music down, I catch her eye and smile much too brightly. “What’s up, Ter?”

  “Turn the fucking music down! What the fuck is your problem?”

  “Aww. Is getting up before noon too hard for you? It’s almost like you’re a teenager instead o
f a thirty-something single girl who can’t hold down a job…”

  “Fuck off, Sadie.”

  “Rent was due last week, Terry.”

  “Yeah, get in line.” She slams her door behind her, leaving me in peace. I return the volume of my music to where it was when it woke her and get back to work. Eventually, my noise and chipper mood drive her out of the apartment and into the world with the rest of humanity.

  Terry’s my third roommate this year.

  Thankfully, our landlord holds each renter accountable for only the money they’re responsible for. It’s good and bad. Good, because I don’t get kicked out when my roommate doesn’t pay her share. Horrible, because I have no control over who lives with me.

  Kelly and I were golden. I hate her for moving out. Not literally. I love her dearly, she’s one of my best friends in this city. But ever since she decided she needed to live on her own, so she could screw her boyfriend in costume without me judging the animal noises that came through the wall, things have sucked here. They weren’t great before she moved out given nice, cheap apartments are hard to come by in this city. But they were better than what I’ve been dealing with since.

  The sad part? She broke up with her furry-loving boyfriend—who loved chipmunks a little too much, if you know what I mean—shortly after she moved out. She’s back to normal sex without costumes or weird soundtracks.

  She should’ve stayed.

  When the apartment is sparkling from top to bottom—which Terry will certainly fuck-up the minute she returns—I pull out my phone and browse through a few social media sites, stalking, but never actually partaking. I almost don’t notice the new email alert on my school’s account.

  The class is every Thursday evening. It’s Saturday. Who’s emailing me on that account over the weekend?

  When I open it, I can’t help but smile. Then laugh out loud. I got the uptight bitch’s number. It took her almost twenty-four hours to make up her mind, but I got what I was after. Copying it over to my contacts, I save her simply as OC736, and send a brief welcoming text.

  Sadie: Wow. Can’t believe you caved and broke the rules all by yourself. What gives?

  The response is almost immediate, and it confuses the hell out of me.

  OC736: My girlfriend dumped me. She says I’m boring and predictable.

  Girlfriend? I either got this person very wrong or…

  Sadie: You’re a lesbian?

  OC736: What? No. I’m a GUY. A STRAIGHT guy.

  Sadie: I really thought you were a girl…

  OC736: Sorry to disappoint.

  That only makes this more fun. An uptight, boring guy? I can totally work with that. Uptight guys are super fun when you get them to finally let their walls down. But I might need to come up with some other insulting adjectives to call him. Boring, predictable, uptight… They’re getting kind of old.

  Sadie: No disappointment here, just surprise. Sorry to hear about your girlfriend, but I did tell you so.

  OC736: That you did. More than once.

  Sadie: Well, you’re REALLY lame. What’re you going to do now?

  Lame… I don’t know if I like that word. I’ll have to get more creative.

  OC736: I don’t know. What do lame people do when they get dumped?

  Sadie: I certainly can’t answer that. I’m a very exciting person.

  OC736: What do you do when you get dumped?

  Sadie: I haven’t been dumped in a long time.

  OC736: Are you always this exasperating to talk to? What did you do the last time it happened?

  I laugh while walking to the kitchen to find something to eat. Something salty, to aid in my bloated-ness. Or maybe chocolatey... Or both. Chocolate covered potato chips sound amazing right now.

  I love PMSing.

  Sadie: Mostly, yeah. And I went out with some friends and found someone else to make that dickbag the last thought in my mind.

  OC736: How?

  Sadie: Sex, my insipid friend. Go get fucked. Score some pussy. Bump uglies. Hide the snake in the garden. Knock boots… Need any more euphemisms?

  OC736: No, I understand your meaning. Not something I’m into, though.

  Who’s not into sex? Seriously! What’s wrong with this guy? He needs to loosen up. In all areas of his life, it sounds like.

  Sadie: You’ve never had a one-night stand?

  OC736: I’m not that kind of guy.

  Sadie: Ha! Of course not! I should’ve guessed. You’re too much of a goody-two-shoes to fuck some pretty girl at the bar.

  OC736: Are you a pretty girl at the bar?

  Quick change of topics there. Why is he asking? He did just get dumped. Is he…interested? That’s hysterical. I’m going to have so much fun with this guy now. In my assignments. Or our texts.

  Sadie: You’re a dull, prissy boy. I wouldn’t go home with you either way.

  Not too bad. Not the greatest, though, either. It’ll come to me eventually. Or maybe I’ll keep coming up with new things to call him. Well, depending on his responses, of course. I don’t want to traumatize the poor guy. Doesn’t seem like he’s used to my kind of reality.

  OC736: Does that mean you’re not pretty, or you’re not at the bar?

  At least he catches on quickly. And if he’s sensitive about the variety of insults I’m throwing his way, he’s not letting it show.

  Sadie: I’m not at the bar. Yet. It’s a little early in my part of the world.

  OC736: Help me, pretty girl. What can I do to not be so…unimaginative?

  Is he trying to help me find adjectives to describe him? That’s surprising. Maybe he’s not as predictable as I originally thought.

  Unimaginative isn’t nearly insulting enough, though, so that word’s out.

  Sadie: Go out and get fucked, Mr. Vapid. Text me after it happens. No more communication until then.

  OC736: I wouldn’t even know how to start…

  OC736: No suggestions?

  OC736: Really? You’re going to leave me hanging again?

  And he likes rules? He’s completely ignoring mine.

  OC736: What if I don’t want to have a one-night stand? I find them morally wrong.

  I text him one more time with a dramatic roll of my eyes. This is it. Absolutely no more. Even if he amuses me through his pleading texts all day long.

  Sadie: At least go out and KISS someone! Goodbye, my personal yawn factory!

  OC736: You’re not a lot of help, you know that?

  But his last reply begs the question, if I’m not a lot of help, why is he asking me?

  Owen

  Go out and get fucked?

  Like it’s just that easy!

  I know it happens all the time, but how do people do it? Walk up to someone and flat out ask them? I imagine you need a little more…flirting or something, right?

  I haven’t dated in forever. It took me weeks to work up the courage to ask Penny for her number, and this girl, this SD, wants me to go out and have casual sex with someone just because she told me to do it? Even if I wanted to, I literally have no idea how to go about it.

  Sex should be more meaningful than a late-night hook-up that she or I won’t remember. I want the connection two people have when they’ve dated for a while. I want to know who I’m bumping uglies with. I want to be able to trust that person and know I’m not going to get her pregnant if the condom breaks. I want to know she’s not going to give me some disease and that I can still respect her, and myself, in the morning.

  I walk to a bar anyway and order a beer.

  I’m nervous just sitting here, knowing that I’m single and actively checking out the girls around me. There are a lot of them. Some are too young, others too old. Most are here with friends, or a group of people. Most look normal, but others are way too wild for me.

  Pulling out my phone, I send a half-desperate text, blatantly ignoring her no-communication rule. Who is she to decide what’s acceptable or not in our already forbidden friendship? Besides, I’m attempting
to do what she told me to. She should help me for that reason alone.

  Owen: How do I know who to hit on? Do I buy her a drink? Introduce myself? Sit here and wait for someone to hit on me?

  SD275: Wow. You’re almost completely helpless, aren’t you?

  Owen: You said almost. Help me. I’m trying to be unpredictable.

  SD275: Pick out three single girls you find attractive.

  Owen: Why three?

  SD275: Odds are you’re going to crash and burn. You need a backup plan to your backup plan.

  Jeez. I didn’t think I was that bad. Why is she assuming I’ll crash and burn twice?

  Owen: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  SD275: Do you have three picked out?

  My eyes roam over all the seemingly single females in the room.

  Owen: Yes.

  SD275: Good. Now get rid of the ones that look like your ex-gf.

  Shit.

  Owen: Let me start over…

  Eventually, I settle on three that look nothing like my ex-girlfriend.

  Wow. Did I really just think that about Penny? That she’s my ex-girlfriend? That doesn’t seem possible. Less than thirty-six hours ago, I was happy to be in a long-term, committed relationship. Now I’m looking for a random girl to hit on? Why am I doing this?

  SD275: Mr. I-Don’t-Have-Any-Balls! Did you chicken out, or does every girl in the bar look like your ex?

  Owen: Chickened out.

  SD275: You’re helpless! I’m about to get picked up by a devilishly handsome guy who melts panties with just his smile. I’m going to have a great night, but you’re certainly not. You’re on your own, OC736!

  I pay my tab, cursing under my breath. At her or myself, I’m not sure. She makes it sound easy. She makes is sound sexy. She makes it sound fun.

  Sex is fun, sure. But when it’s with someone new? The first time is never great. Neither one knows what the other likes. It’s awkward. Hopefully still good, but it’s work; figuring out what turns her on, what pushes her over that edge. What are her erogenous zones? What positions are her favorites? What speed and depth get her where I want her to be?