MAX

YOUR PASSWORD IS INCORRECT.

I groan and almost smash my fist into the stupid, stupid 'smartcomputer'. As far as computers go, I paid an arm, a leg, and my grandmother's diamond heirloom for this hunk of junk. Kidding about the heirloom. The only heirloom my grandmother ever had is that one can of chewing tobacco she would always have in her pocket. But that's neither here nor there.

The point is, when I bought this Apple laptop for my 25th birthday (splurging a bit, I know, but it had been a rough year at the ol' A & P and I wanted to treat myself. Not that I work at the A & P. I don't. I work for a PR company called Hannigan and Schmick, which is just as laughable. Anyways.), I was so excited. I had never had such a sleek piece of machinery all to myself before, and I felt like I was well on the way to becoming one of those swishy-haired, Emporio Armani -wearing business dolls, who flitted around on the tips of their six-inch Jimmy Choos and carried thousand-dollar Gucci briefcases. The ones who're all married to top-level business executives and spend their evenings heading out to Park for a fancy dinner and dancing.

Of course, I'm not married. Heck, I'm not even engaged. Nor do I have a boyfriend, or any prospects of one. Actually, I've just gone through a breakup. Well, if recently counts as two months ago. And if a breakup counts as me ending it on the second date. At this point, I don't particularly care if the man I marry has tens of thousands of dollars to spend on his wife, to buy her Emporio Armani –but let's face it, I'd never say no to that.

But the reality is, I'm single as a Pringle, sitting here in the huge apartment I can barely pay the rent for, with no roommate, and I'm unable to remember the password I set for the stupid laptop I couldn't afford without giving up on my dreams for a Mercedes. Think, Max, think. Use that brain that got you into public relations. I kind of feel like a hacker –a hacker that can't get into her own bloody computer, but a hacker nonetheless. I've got seven more password attempts to go before the hard drive wipes itself. Not that I've even stored anything on here… except some old prom pictures and…

Shit.

I need to unlock this computer. Because I've just realized that there's more in here than just stupid pictures of my old prom date, Mark. I saved the entire proposal for the E.B. Cullen book signing somewhere, right? I saved it in here.

I stare at the screen, transfixed by horror. The book signing's the biggest project my boss has ever let me handle. Cullen's a major newcomer in the romance-mystery department of novels. There's going to be at least three hundred people attending the thing. And I've gone and saved the stupid file inside this thousand-dollar piece of scrap metal.

I need this job. How many other twenty-five year olds are earning six figures and living in apartments overlooking Manhattan's Central Park? Well, okay, it's not overlooking the Park, per se, but you can kind of see it out of the living room window. A bit of green in the corner, amidst all of the towering concrete skyscrapers. But the realtor I bought this pad from said it overlooked Central Park. So why shouldn't I repeat her words?

As for my job, I'm kind of already on my second strike. A few months ago, there was a mix-up between some death metal band called the Stinging Sirens and a kiddie band called the Singing Sirens. In my defense, I'm a terrible typist, and everyone forgets letters once in a while. But it was still blamed on me when four enormous punk-rock biker dudes showed up to this kid's eighth birthday bash. Not just any kid. One of Angelina Jolie's kids.

So I was pretty berated, even though I managed to smooth the thing over in the end. The kid got his bubble-blowing, balloon-animal-making, cutesy band, and I got a date with the lead singer of the Stinging Sirens (that's stinging, with a T). I ended it with him because he was too scary, with his piercings and his deep growly voice, and his… tattoos in undesirable places. Let me just say, it probably hurt like a bitch to get a skull done down there. I wonder how the tattoo artist managed to keep a straight face. But the tattoo turned me off and I broke up with him without a glance, mainly because I couldn't look at the poor guy without seeing his skull tattoo.

That was my last 'boyfriend'.

And my last screw-up, according to my boss Mike Hannigan.

Breathe, Max, breathe.

Maybe I should go for a jog. That clears peoples' minds up… right? I haven't been running since I quit the cross country team in junior year of high school. That's a long story, involving two mud fights and, ultimately, a pair of cleats to the face. But I can't get into that now. I need inspiration. I'll go running, and I'll remember my password, and I'll save my job.

Besides, I still have seven password attempts left.

...

FANG

I stare at the cake in front of me, trying to decide between a laugh, which would make it seem like I was shaking things off, or to burst into tears, which is so not manly and so unlike me.

I do neither. I smile at the cake in front of me, remembering the times, the glorious years, the wonderful sunny days I'd spent here in California.

And now the cake, in front of me, which reads,

Goodbye, Fag!

I'm sure the guys at work thought it was hilarious. Oh, so funny. Leaving me this one gift as a remembrance of my parting. As a testament to all the hours spent in the dark, leaning over stupid petri dishes and taking notes. True, biological research is my passion, but I kind of wish it merited a correctly-spelled cake. At least my last day at work wasn't all bad. I didn't work, for one thing.

Whoever frosted the cake left out only one letter, but it was enough. Fang. My nickname is Fang. How hard would it be to include that tiny little N in the middle? Twenty-seven years, I've spent here in California. Grew up in Santa Barbara, went to college at UC Davis, got a job as a junior researcher in a quirky little San Diego research firm. Twenty-seven years I've spent here, and this is all I have to show for it.

Goodbye, Fag.

My flight leaves tomorrow. I'll never eat the entire thing by then. Maybe I should just chuck it. But while I'm not a particularly sentimental guy (actually, once you enter the word guy, you automatically become less sentimental), I decide to leave it on the kitchen table. It's a chocolate cake, anyways, and I adore chocolate more than I do my own health, which could be very bad for me.

Goodbye, Fag.

Iggy's coming over in a few minutes to help me heave my junk into my car. He's going to laugh at the cake. Maybe I should chuck it. He'll probably bring up the memory of the time we met in college, when both of us were drunk off of beer coolers and I tried making out with a drag queen –who was dressed very convincingly, let me tell you. How was I supposed to know that he was only trying to hand me a card for the LGBT club, and not coming on to me? His hand only accidentally brushed me, but I was drunk and it was dark and… I have no more excuses.

And yeah, that was my only lesbian experience. I just want to reiterate that. I'm more of a ladies' man. Ask anyone. Ask my last girlfriend, Lissa, who's probably the only person I'm actually glad to leave behind. Well, her, and the stupid baker who iced the words on this cake.

Maybe I should chuck the cake. I can see Iggy getting out of his car through the window. My arm's pretty good. I know I can make it into the trash can before he gets here–but then what? I'll be throwing away the most delicious memory I have of this place. Actually, that's not true. I still have that macaroni diorama I made in second grade of the Chrysler Building. But since I was in second grade it looks less like an amazing feat of architecture and more like an upside-down dildo.

Maybe I should chuck that, too.

I hear the sound of the door opening. Iggy's my best friend, so according to him, he doesn't have to do petty things like knock. Good thing I'm not roommates with him, because the whole sock-on-the-door concept is lost on him. And so were any chances of me getting lucky with Sabrina Gaston that night.

I tense up. Goodbye, Fag is still on the counter. Should I throw it? Should I shove it in my mouth, sorry not sorry?

Too late. He bursts into the kitchen, tall and gangly and as red-haired as ever. He grins at me. "Ready to load it in?"

"No," I say truthfully. And then, because I can't hold it in anymore, I say, "Do you want some cake?"

Goodbye, Fag.

Bye, California. This is one of my last few days with you, and I'm going to spend it eating cake.

Hey guys,

This is my hand at writing a romcom. I know it's just the first chapter, but I dunno if it's moving too slow or not. I've read enough romantic comedies in my life to know that the exposition goes on for at least a third of the book. In some cases, three-quarters of the book. Won't mention any names here. However, since I'll only be posting one to two chapters a week, I'll try to make it move a little faster.

I'd love to hear feedback -I know that 1,500 words isn't a lot to give feedback on but I wrote this at 3:00 in the morning and I want to know if other people think it's even... coherent.

Rating will probably go up to an M eventually -you know, 'cause a couple of twenty-something adults in Manhattan who've got unspoken attraction can never be expected to keep their hands off each other. I'll try to keep it T for as long as possible, but let's be honest, the fun part's the M part.

- HoxtonHeroes