Well, This Sucks: Life According to Seth
Chapter Twelve

July 19, 2007

UUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Welcome aboard the failboat, ladies and gents. My name is Seth and I'll be your captain.

--

July 20, 2007

So I've been having all these flashbacks to fourth grade or something. I'm sitting in the back seat of the car, wearing a green rain coat and old rubber boots that are too small and pinching my toes. Leah's sitting in the passenger seat, being all prissy and fashionable or whatever it is fourteen-year-old girls do, and Mom's at the wheel. The closer we get to QTS, the farther down in her seat Leah slouches, like being dropped off by a parent is on par with being a hunchback or something. And when we get there, Leah flings open the door and bolts out, backpack over one shoulder, hood pulled down over her head. And then there's me, scrambling forward to kiss Mom on the cheek before basically tripping out of the car with my too-big arms and legs to avoid Leah's footsteps at all costs, on penalty of death.

I was the lucky one, Leah says. By the time I was old enough to care who saw me getting dropped off at school and by whom, Leah could drive, and there's never really any shame in hitching a ride with your older sister or her boyfriend.

But now I've been getting all these dizzying flashbacks because I think I'm beginning to understand how Leah felt during those years, sinking lower and lower in her seat, too young to drive, but too old to want to be seen getting dropped off by Mom or Dad, the horror.

Okay, so the point I'm trying to get at here is that I am going to look like the biggest asshole in front of the hottest girl I've ever met.

And it's all Leah's fault. Naturally.

And you know, it is just like the universe to do this to me. Finally, something goes my way. Lauren Mallory, bane and joy of my existence, agrees to go on a date with me, and everything is great for a grand total of fourteen seconds before I remember that, OH YEAH, my sister has FUCKING COLLEGE ORIENTATION Saturday morning and is driving to Seattle Friday afternoon so she doesn't have to get up at the butt crack of dawn on Saturday. And Mom is conveniently working late tonight, so she can't meet Leah until later, but she'll be taking the car, which is honestly all I care about because that means that I HAVE NO CAR FOR MY DATE TONIGHT.

Enter Paul.

Me: "Shit. How do you take a girl out if you don't have a car?"

Paul: "Tandem bike?"

Me: "Oh, that's real cute."

Paul: "You mean you don't think she'll find it charming?"

Me: "You obviously do not know Lauren Mallory."

Paul: "And she obviously does not know you."

Me: "What is that supposed to mean?"

Paul: "Just that, well, if she's as high maintenance as you're making her sound…why exactly is she going out with someone like you? No offence."

Me: "None taken. Oh God, what am I going to do? I won't cancel."

Paul: "Rachel's been complaining about how there's not enough romance in our lives. She says that just because my imprint binds me to her eternally doesn't mean I get out of actually having to prove my boundless love every once in awhile. So we'll go with you to this pizza place. One of us'll drive."

Me: "A double date? You're making me take Lauren on a double date?"

Paul: "It's either that or cancel, dude."

Me: "I hate it when you're right."

Paul: "Yeah, me too."

Me: "What?"

Paul: "With great power comes great responsibility, you know."

Me: "Being right is a power?"

Paul: "Women seem to think so."

Me: "Just…pick me up at 5:30, will you?"

Paul: "Ahaha, say that again."

Me: "Why?"

Paul: "I dunno. Something about you needing a ride from me makes you sound like my bitch."

Me: "You're the one giving me a ride. Doesn't that make you my bitch?"

Paul: "Um. No."

Me: "I'm pretty sure it does. You're like my chauffer."

Paul: "I'm like your mom giving you a ride to school. Way embarrassing. Lauren's gonna think you're a total pansy."

Me: "Whatever, bitch."

Paul: "You sound like a gay guy."

Me: "You mom sounds like a gay guy. See you at 5:30, Paul."

Paul: "I am so telling my mom you said that."

--

Later

Paul and Rachel are gonna be here in like five minutes. I don't understand why I'm freaking out so much. Am I a five-year-old girl?

Probably not. But it's a possibility.

I have to take a piss. I have to take a piss. I have to take a piss.

I'm gonna go take a piss. Then I'm gonna be a total stud(muffin) and take Lauren on the greatest double date she's ever been on. Right? Right.

Oh my God, I'm going to puke.

--

Even Later

I did not puke.

I did not fall flat on my face. I did not get stood up. I did not accidentally call her Mom. I did not spill anything on my shirt. I did not spill anything on my pants. I did not spill anything on her. I did not punch Paul in the face. I did not grope her inappropriately. I did not fart (loudly). I did not forget my wallet. I did not have my fly down. I did not hum along to that obnoxious Avril Lavigne song—HEY HEY YOU YOU I DON'T LIKE YOUR GIRLFRIEND HEY HEY YOU YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP—when it played in the restaurant.

I consider these small victories, and I enjoy celebrating the small victories in life. Each one makes me feel special, like I deserve a little gold star. I should make a chart for myself and hang it in my room, and every time I do something that doesn't completely fuck up my life, I'll give myself a star. And when I get enough stars, I'll reward myself by using my twenty-year-old appearance to buy copy of Hustler and then start the star collection process all over again.

Aaaaaaaaaanyway. Tangent time is over.

THE BLOW-BY-BLOW:

5:30 p.m. – Paul arrived, sitting shotgun in Rachel's car. I should have known. This is typical of their relationship. Rachel loves wearing the pants, I think mostly because she knows she can get away with it. I mean, Paul could try to be all "I AM MAN, HEAR ME ROAR," which fits his personality if you ask me, but his weakness for Rachel is so great that he doesn't even seem bothered by her control complex.

Yet another reason why I'm not in a hurry to imprint.

Not that I'm against girls taking control or anything. I'm definitely not a male chauvinist, and neither is Paul. But watching him back down against Rachel is weird, because backing down just isn't what Paul does. As much as I whine about how sucky it is to be me, I don't want to lose any of me when I imprint, get it?

Anyway, I climbed into the backseat of the car and prayed to every god of whose existence I'm aware that Lauren wouldn't turn right around back into her house when she saw me sitting in the backseat of some car accompanied by two strangers. I prayed so hard that Paul must have glanced in the rearview, saw my eyes shut tight, and asked if I was suffering from constipation.

5:59 – We arrived. I told the wiggly snakes in my stomach to stop making such a commotion, then scrambled to get out of the car and ring the bell before Lauren came out and saw me sitting in the back like a loser.

We met halfway.

I was almost up the driveway when Lauren came out the front door, looking like she'd just stepped out of an episode of That 70's Show. The waist of her wide jeans was ridiculously high, but she looked good, and I lost the spirit to make fun of her.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," she said.

"It's uh…that's Rachel. Driving. And her boyfriend Paul. They're friends of mine."

"Oh, okay," she said.

And that was that.

6:02 – The short ride to the restaurant was fun, in the way that I knew I'd wind up laughing about it later. There was silence at first, and while Lauren looked cool and collected, I was sweating, the snakes in my stomach were sweating, but I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Don't worry," Paul suddenly said loudly, and I knew he was talking to Lauren. My gut told me to launch over the back of his seat and cut out his voice box before he could say anything else, but my seatbelt was obnoxiously locked and I could hardly move forward an inch if I wanted to. Paul continued, "Seth obviously isn't a charmer yet, but he'll get there. Give him time."

"I dunno," Rachel cut in, and I think she was trying to make up for her soulmate's idiocy. "You used to talk about how you'd grow into a charmer one day, too, and look where we are."

"You mean I'm not charming?" Paul cried, only half-offended. "My pick-up lines don't turn you on?"

"Oh God, here we go. Sorry, guys," she apologized to Lauren and me.

"I'm a really great thief, because your heart stole…uh…" Paul fumbled, losing the race before he was even out of the gate.

That's Paul's thing. He fucks up pick up lines. I used to think he did it on purpose because when they first started dating, Rachel thought his ineptitude was cute. But he still does it now that they're a sure thing, and there's always so much sincerity involved that I've been forced to believe that he's genuinely messing up each time. He tries, he really does, but simple cheese escapes him.

"Well, okay, I forget that one. Something about hearts and thieves. But try this: Are you lost? Paradise is a lot farther this time of year!"

"That's not how it goes," Rachel said as she made a smooth left turn.

"That, like, doesn't even make sense," Lauren added.

And that was how we occupied the rest of the car ride. Paul stumbled his way through cheesy pick-up lines, Rachel corrected him, and I tried not to get too mortified. I glanced at Lauren about a thousand times, and I heard her laugh twice, so it could have been worse, but I still wanted to kill Paul.

Sure, at least Lauren wasn't bored. But I wasn't the one entertaining her.

6:15 – We ordered pizza. We made small talk. We made some larger talk, but nothing too terribly groundbreaking. She laughed at some stuff I said, I genuinely laughed at some stuff she said, and it was good, I guess. She just seemed very…reserved around me. And aloof. Her responses were generally short and civil, the topics were safe and…and the whole thing was very bland.

OH GOD, was all I could think, WE LACK CHEMISTRY.

All girls talk about is chemistry. They need that spark, or whatever.

This is going to sound sick, but I feel like Lauren and I have more fun when we're arguing. But she was being very non-confrontational and I was being very non-confrontational and yeah, I sort of wanted to pull her out back and make out with her, but I was so aware of how little we have in common and how much older she is and how much cooler she is and how silly her retro clothes are.

I was starting to think this was all just a very bad idea. I mean, who was I kidding?

6:45-ish – The only chance I had to make small talk alone with her was after I got up to go to the bathroom. It was the most retarded thing ever. I was just coming out of the bathroom, and as I was going through the doorway, I saw her passing as she went to the ladies' room, presumably. We did this awkward smile thing, fancy seeing you here, and she was about to continue on her way when I was like, "Sorry about, uh, Paul and Rachel. I didn't mean—this wasn't supposed to be, like…"

"A double date?" she finished, and this weird silence fell between us, because that was the first time one of us had even acknowledged this outing as an actual date, and even the way she said it was strange, like she wasn't quite sure that was what we were doing. It didn't feel like a date, not exactly. It felt like I was hanging out with friends, just one of whom happened to make my heart go all funky simply by existing.

I coughed and scratched my head. "Yeah…"

"Don't worry about it," she finally said, and I could feel her trying to reach my eyes. I looked at her and she held my gaze. "I've, like, definitely had worse dates. Trust me." She laughed—was this funny?—and shook her head. "College guys can be such pigs."

"So I'm at least one step above a pig," I said cheerfully. "That's good."

"The night's not over," she replied warningly, her pale eyebrows rising up her forehead. "There's still plenty of time for you to like, 'accidentally' grope my boob or something."

I sucked in my breath. "Jeez, I would never do that. Did a guy actually do that to you on a date?"

She pursed her lips and let out a sigh through her nostrils. Nostrils, nostrils, nostrils. That's such a weird word. Nostrils. Lauren's nostrils. Lauren let out a sigh through her nostrils, nostrils, hostile nostrils, Nostrildamus, nosssssstril, nose-trill, nots-trill, nozz-trill, Lauren's nozz-trills. ANYWAY. "Like I said," she lamented, "college guys are pigs."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, that's life." She wasn't looking at me anymore. "I make a point to keep my expectations low nowadays."

That stung, but I played it cool…ish. "Oh, I see. Thanks a ton—"

"You know that's not what I meant." She rolled her eyes and shifted her purse on her shoulder. "You're different from a lot of the guys I've dated or, like, given a chance throughout the years."

Different? Was this good? Bad? "What do you mean?" I asked.

She laughed. "You won't like my response."

"Come on." The hallway we were standing in was narrow and dim, and I liked being this close to her. Sure, I didn't know where I stood with her in the figurative sense, but in the literal sense, it was nice to be just a few steps away.

"First off, you're younger. You're, like, still in high school, and I usually go for the older guys, because they're supposedly more mature and will treat you better, but that is starting to seem like a total urban legend. You're also not, like…popular, I guess is the best way to say it. No, that's not exactly it. I mean, you're not as socially out there." She waved her hand for effect, though it didn't necessarily help her make her point. "You're kind of awkward, I guess," she finally concluded. "You're not a smooth talker. You don't always have the right words, and you don't really, like, care about that. Also, you were an ass the first time we met."

Okay, I could almost forgive her for basically calling me a complete social failure, because she's kind of got a point there, but calling me an ass was totally out of line.

"What?" I cried. "You ran a shopping cart into me!"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. I had a hard time reading her face, since it was kind of dim in the hallway. She took a step away, as if trying to slowly inch herself out of an unwanted conversation. Finally, she told me, "That's what I thought you'd say." She lifted her chin, like someone trying to regain lost pride, and then excused herself to go to the bathroom, because, "Like, I really have to pee."

My brain was BAFFLED. It also felt slightly BRUISED and BEATEN.

I kept thinking about it the rest of the night. She never brought it up again after coming back from the bathroom, and I personally think it's because she liked watching me sweat it out. Did she think I was an ass because I'd made that time machine comment? Why did I make that time machine comment? No, she deserved that! She ran a shopping cart into me! And she dressed weird. Not my fault. Why did she think I'd mention her running the shopping cart into me? Does she think I'm the kind of guy who likes to make all disagreements someone else's fault? I'm not! What else could she have possibly meant by that statement? Is she still under the impression that I'm a perv? A perv who's also an ass? I could analyze this to death and the only thing I would come away with is that I AM CRAP AT ANALYZING THESE KINDS OF THINGS.

Why can't girls just say exactly what they mean? That would make life so much easier.

6:50 – I thought I'd totally killed the date after the run-in outside the bathrooms, but I'm not really so sure. After all, the date had kind of been dead already, bland as it was, and after we lost our footing, things actually seemed more normal.

For us, I mean. Normal for me and Lauren.

I guess I figured I'd already fucked it up, so I stopped giving a shit, really, and just did and said whatever the hell I wanted to do and say. After we were done eating but before the waiter gave us the bill, I grabbed everyone's wrinkled straw wrappers and bunched them all together. I dipped my straw into the watery remains of my Coke and had just pressed my thumb over the top opening when Lauren said, "Oh my God, boys aren't satisfied until the entire table is a mess."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked as I dripped diluted pop onto the shriveled straw wrappers and watched them writhe and expand on the clichéd checkerboard tablecloth.

"I mean that I haven't done that since I was, like, seven."

"I'm in touch with my inner child," I retorted.

"Code for immature."

"Hold up," Paul interrupted from across the table. "First you guys hardly talk to each other. Now you just bicker. I'm just a little confused here. Do you even like each other?"

Things got awkward and quiet then, because neither of us wanted to be the first to answer. I didn't want to be all, "Oh yeah, we totally fucking hate each other," because then maybe she'd really think I hate her, which I kind of do, only not really. Just sort of. Sometimes. But I also didn't want to be like, "Duh, we're totally obsessed with each other, can't you tell?" And I don't even need to explain why that wouldn't have gone over well.

And while I was freaking out internally or whatever, Lauren finally just shrugged and said, "We're here, aren't we?"

And although that didn't exactly answer Paul's question, it was the closest thing he'd ever get to an answer. She and I were there. On a maybe-date. Liking or not liking each other was irrelevant.

7:30 – When we got back to her house, I walked her to the door.

"Thanks for dinner," she said, even though we'd gone Dutch.

"Yeah, thanks for coming."

"I'll tell Jason you said hi."

"I'm glad he doesn't care that, you know, this happened."

"Oh, he doesn't know."

"Oh."

"Anyway. Have a nice night, Seth."

She already had her hand on the doorknob and was about to go in when I suddenly said her name and reached out to stop her. When my hand landed on her forearm, she turned to look at me with her mouth open, and I withdrew quickly. She didn't say anything about how warm I was, but I could see that she was startled.

"We don't have to—to be done right here. I mean, I'm sure there's a movie showing or…"

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and I knew what she was going to say before she said it. "I think I'm just gonna call it a night."

"Oh, of course, yeah, no big deal."

She turned to go again, but stopped of her own accord this time. She looked over her shoulder at me and cast a smile in my direction. "You know, Seth, you're, like, the first boy in a long time that's been nervous around me." And then she was gone.

I don't even remember what Paul and Rachel said to me when I got back in the car.

I'm not gonna try to over-analyze this. What happened, happened. End.

Yeah, says the boy who just wrote an eleven page recap.

But seriously, I'm not gonna try to think about this too much anymore. At least, not neurotically. I think I'm allowed to think about the way she smiled at me right before she went inside, right? There's nothing wrong with thinking about that smile, is there? I may not understand why she agreed to get pizza with me despite thinking I'm a social retard; I may not understand how much she actually likes or dislikes me; I may not understand why I disappointed her outside the bathrooms. But that smile…I understand that smile.

That smile had been real.

--

July 22, 2007

Mom and Leah are back from orientation.

"So, what'd you do while we were gone?" my mom asked.

"Uh, patrolled the forests. Ate lots of beef. Arm wrestled with Jake. You know."

No way was I admitting that I'd gone on a date with a girl then spent the rest of the night lying on my bed writing in a man-journal (a.k.a. diary) about it.

I mean, I'm all for defying our culture's heteronormative viewpoints, but that's a little gay, even for me.

--

July 23, 2007

I wish I had cool prophetic dreams. Then I could run to the guys and be like, "Dudes! I know exactly what's going on with the Makahs! See, I had this dream where a bunch of foxes were dancing around a fire, except their shadows were wolves, which is symbolic for this, that, and the other thing, and blah blah blah." And then I'd be known as the Prophet of La Push and people would pay me to sleep and have profound dreams and life would be sweet.

Instead I'm stuck with random-ass dreams that cause me to wake up all tangled in my sheets, going, "What the fuck?"

Take this morning for example. In my dream, I was sitting in the remedial history classroom, and Pru and Jason M. and Travis Reynolds were there, which made no sense because none of my friends are in that class (they were done with summer school after the first "semester," the lucky bastards) and Travis Reynolds went to QTS for only two years before his family moved away from the Rez, and I haven't even thought about him for like five years.

Anyway, we were sitting there, learning about black holes, and then Jason M. was all, "Your attempt to get into my pants is cavalier and all, but I'll pass, thanks," and I was like, "Wait, I thought Pru said that," and then Travis started to laugh and his mouth turned into a giant black hole that were all sucked into, except inside wasn't a deep space vacuum, it was First Beach, and we were celebrating Guy Fawkes Day.

"Remember, remember, the third of December!" Pru cried.

"I don't think that's right," I told her, or at least I meant to. Instead I said, "Let's make some s'mores," and we did. We put sugar-free marshmallows on sticks that materialized in our hands and roasted them over the fire in which Nacho Libre from that Jack Black movie was burning in effigy.

And then some other shit I don't remember happened, and Jake and I were sitting on the sand, drinking beers and talking about SOHCAHTOA, the Indian princess of trigonometry, and I finally woke up just as Brady had joined Jake and I to tell us how fucking awesome Crocs are.

So, when we had a mandatory wolf meeting today, I had nothing cool to contribute.

Sam was all, "I saw a crescent moon in my sleep," and hell, if I'd seen a crescent moon in my sleep, I'd talk about it and its symbolism, too. But as it was, the best I could say was, "Well, remember Travis Reynolds? After he moved, his mouth turned into a black hole. At least, that's what Google tells me. Could be the wrong Travis Reynolds. It's a common name, right?"

I'm starting to think that I'm doing cocaine in my sleep. Sleep snorting, I believe it's called.

Actually, I think I'm just antsy. We all are.

See, ever since Tyler came and gave us the biggest mindfuck of our lives, we've been trying to analyze just what he meant when he said something bad was going to happen a week from today, and that we were going to be "allies one way or another."

The truth is, none of us know. And we can hold all of these meetings that we like, but I don't think that's going to prepare us any more for what's to come.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want a fight. I want a fight so badly that I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and have to pee for like, forty-five straight seconds because I'm that worked up about it. Like a little kid who is overly excited to go to Disney World. I don't tell anyone else this, mostly because I'm afraid they'll want to stick me in a psycho ward, and partly because I think they'd be right to do so.

I'm part wolf. And the only reason nature has allowed me to make that statement is because I'm here to protect. I've got all these instincts, and they're telling me to RIP, TEAR, and KILL, and that is why I want to fight. I want to hear my blood pounding in my ears and I want to bury my claws in my enemy's flesh and I want to taste victory on my tongue.

I am Godzilla, and the backs of my enemy are Tokyo.

"IT'S GOOOOJIIIIRRRAAAA!"

But I don't speak their language of fear.

--

Later

I don't speak their language of fear?!

Fuck. That. Bullshit.

I'm part wolf. And if all of these instincts telling me to RIP, TEAR, and KILL don't cause me to quake all down my spine, I don't know what does.

It's not just that, the craving to taste victory on my tongue and whatever else I was rambling about, that keeps me up at night, my fingers tingling and my mind buzzing. It's also the uncertainty that eats at me, too. We have no idea what's coming.

No. Idea.

How do you prepare for everything at once?

You can't. We can't.

And then I think of Mom and Charlie and my sister and my friends here in La Push and my friends in Forks and the Cullens and Lauren, Lauren, Lauren, and I don't know what's going to happen to them if we aren't ready for what's coming, and the more I think about it, the sicker I get and the more my stomach churns.

And then the wolf instincts kick in and I'm ready to do anything to protect, and I say retarded shit like "I don't speak their language of fear," which is a lie. Because I do. I understand my enemy's fear and I understand it all a little too well. And if it came to a fight, sure, I'd pretend to not understand their fear in the same way people spew "No hablo Inglés" when they don't like where a conversation is going. When things get a little too close for comfort.

Jesus Christ. I need sleep.

--

July 23, 2007

"Seth, this is why God invented women."

That's what Collin told me today when I sought out his therapeutic advice. I spent most of remedial history in the fetal position, which was kind of awkward considering I was sitting in a desk. I thought about chilling with Pru and the Jasons afterwards, but then I realized that what I really needed was the wacky, nonsensical advice of someone who understood.

"Is that really all you and Brady think about?" I asked. "Women?"

Collin laughed and stretched his legs out into the dirt in front of him. "And you don't?"

He and I were chilling on the step of his porch. I had wanted a beer, but Collin gave me apple juice instead, which was so funny to me for some reason that I laughed for like five minutes straight. So I sipped my apple juice and said, "Well, I mean, yeah, I think about girls—"

"One girl in particular, if Paul is to be believed…" Collin wiggled his eyebrows at me.

I laughed sheepishly into my apple juice and couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, but it's complicated. And not complicated in the way that I'd make it my Facebook relationship status, but just…I don't even know." I sighed and took another swig.

"Complicated in a complicated way."

"Yeah, I…yeah. I guess so."

"So make it uncomplicated."

"Uh, how?"

"Untangle that web, Seth! Call her, talk to her, buy her random little gifts, flirt with her, sweep her off her feet! Do what you've got to do."

Never mind that I don't even know how much I actually like her, even though I think about her all the time. I mean, duh I'm attracted to her, but it's always this crazy attraction where I'm not sure if I want to strangle her or kiss her until her face is blue. I need to ask Edward if this is how it was with Bella, because it all sounds frighteningly similar to me. Except, you know, I don't want to suck Lauren's blood. I just want her to stop being so annoying.

I looked over at Collin, confused. "That isn't the same advice you gave to me way back when."

"Oh, you mean when I told you to get your freak on with some hot bitches?"

"Uh, yeah."

He just grinned and shoved my shoulder. "Things are different now, Seth. Your needs are different. Before, you were sexually frustrated, paranoid of imprinting and in need of some release, in more ways than one."

It kind of freaks me out how he utters innuendoes so nonchalantly.

"But I still am," I protested. "All of those things."

"The curse of being a teenage boy," he lamented to the sky. "But your situation has changed drastically, and instead of just being frustrated, you're on the brink of a possible territorial war with a group of shape-shifters who are supposed to be our allies. And in times of civil war, or any war for that matter, what a man really needs is love."

"This is getting a little too cheesy for me."

He carried on, undaunted by my cynicism. "You need her breath in your ear, the soft caress of her hand along your arm, her body circled in your arms, her smile aligned with yours."

Oh shit, her smile. Her radiant, lip-stretching, breath stopping, real smile. How does he know? How does Collin know all of my weak points?

"It freaks me out," I finally said, kicking at the dirt around my feet, "thinking about what could happen to her if things get out of hand. What if what we're dealing with is too big for just La Push? What if it spills over to Forks? I think of everyone, of course, my family and you and the rest of the guys, but I think of her more than I should, considering how little I really know her and how little we're involved."

Collin laughed and took the glass from my hands. "Then why are you still here talking to me? Go, Seth. Go and get her."

And fuck if I'm not inspired. I think I'm gonna call her now.

--

Later

Jesu Christo. Just got off the phone with Lauren.

"You waited three days to call me?" she asked the instant she picked up. Damn caller ID.

"What? I—you're the one who wanted to call it a night after dinner! Mixed signals, much?"

"I will send you, like, a clusterfuck of signals if I want."

"Please don't."

"What, no signals? Fine." And then she hung up the phone.

I almost couldn't believe it at first. And then, as usual, my mind freaked out, and I contemplated murdering Collin for making me forget that my pseudo-relationship with Lauren is just a giant pile of shit disguised as something less, I dunno, shitty, and—

Caller ID currently reads: Mallory, Arnold.

I fucking love Collin.

A/N: And I fucking love all of you. To little, tiny, heart-shaped pieces.

Some fun stuff: I have a Twitter account now. The link is on my profile. So you can follow me if you're interested in getting updates on my sad and awkward life. Also, sometime later this month I'm going to have a guest spot on the Temptation Twilight Podcast, which I'm super excited about. So be on the lookout for that.

Note to self: more Collin. He's a lot of fun to write.