Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(7)

“Sorry!”

I grab a white tee with the Rugrats logo, a new favorite that I thrifted last week with Nora, to much protest. (“You don’t need any more T-shirts,” she had said. “How about this?” She held up a red corset that I’m pretty sure was intended to be worn as lingerie. “This screams ‘I’m ready to get laid.’?” I ended up purchasing both, although I don’t know when I’ll get the chance, or the boost of confidence, to wear the corset.)

I pair the Rugrats tee with a pair of light-wash Levi’s shorts and a spritz of my new pheromone-infused perfume, which I purchased from an Instagram ad after being lured by the design of the bottle with the word Seduction written in red across the black glass. Thanks to our seductive and captivating fragrance, he won’t be able to resist you was etched below the red name.

I take the claw clip out of my hair to see what it would look like if I decided to wear my natural curls down.

“Nope,” I say out loud to my own reflection, a portrait of a girl who looks like she was electrocuted.

I twist my hair back up into a knot and secure the clip, pulling out a few loose strands that Nora cut shorter to frame my face. I apply a dab of concealer under my brown eyes, and then wipe it off immediately once I realize how cakey it looks on my sweaty skin. I recently learned that liquid blush can be multipurpose, so I apply a thick layer of it on my cheeks and lips.

As I’m placing my discarded pants in the hamper next to my dresser, the tattered letter falls out. Lose your virginity. That’s all I ask. Without thinking about it, I snatch the letter off the floor and stuff it into my bedside drawer, hopeful that I won’t be able to hear it mocking me from inside.



* * *



—

Jeffery’s is down the street from our apartment, so we walk. It still hasn’t cooled off outside and the air is thick with the smell of our dumpster wafting over to us from the garage. I gag thinking about what the heat is doing to the rotisserie chicken carcass I tossed in there this morning. I look up at Jonathan to distract myself from the thought, using his body to shield my eyes from the blinding sun. I have to crane my neck to get a good look at him.

He nods and listens intently as I weigh the pros and cons of my new T-shirt organization system.

“I don’t know why I haven’t always done it this way,” I tell him. “It makes way more sense like this, don’t you think? Or did you like the other way better?”

“No, I think the new way is great. I really do.” He throws his arm around me and gives my shoulder a pat. He must be able to sense that I’m anxious. He always can. “I wouldn’t just say that.”

My body sags with relief at his reassurance. He wouldn’t just say that.

“It probably isn’t safe for me to cross the street on my own,” I say, recycling the same line that I started using our freshman year, an obvious ruse to link elbows. I reach out my arm, and he takes it without hesitation.

My favorite part of this routine is watching people watch us. People stare at Jonathan wherever we go, and by extension, they stare at me when I’m hanging off his arm. There’s something incredibly satisfying about the idea of passersby looking at us together and assuming we’re a couple. I’d like to believe that people are looking at me and thinking: “That girl in the Rugrats shirt has definitely had sex before.” And with someone like Jonathan, no less.

Of all the clichés that make up my collection of romance novels, the friends-to-lovers trope has always been one of my favorites. So the idea of Jonathan and me being endgame is something that I can’t help but wonder about.

What if?

What if this is a classic friends-to-lovers situation, and us ending up together isn’t a matter of if but a matter of when? What would I do if he professed his love for me? What if he offers to take my virginity as an act of good faith for my thirtieth birthday present? Would I want that?

It feels wrong to think about Jonathan sexually, and even romantically, but all I know is that if he got down on one knee in the middle of the crosswalk and asked me to marry him tonight, I’d say yes. All of our friends would.

He’s Jonathan.

I know the day will come when he finds someone else to spend all his time with, and our relationship will change. We’re halfway across the street now, and I hold on to him a little tighter while we make the rest of our way.



* * *



—

Nothing says welcome to Jeffery’s quite like the sound of everyone’s shoes unsticking from the floor with each step. Squinting through the smokey air, I spot Jerry, our favorite bartender, schmoozing with some other regulars while pouring their drinks. Alex and Meg are already at our usual table to the left, which means, to no one’s surprise, we beat Nora. She’s never once made it to a trivia night on time. In her defense, she lives the farthest away. An entire mile.

I rush over to Meg’s side of the booth and throw my arms around her.

“How are you feeling?”

I already know the answer. Today would have been her one-year anniversary with Jake, her ex, if she hadn’t found him on one of those “Are we dating the same guy?” Facebook groups last month. She’s been so beat up about it that today Alex had to go over to her place and forcibly remove her from the couch in order to get her here. I hate Jake.