Subscriber Wars: An Enemies-to-Lovers-Romantic Comedy

by Kristy Marie

  But instead of offering Vee a high five for thinking as brilliantly as I do, I shrug like there’s a small possibility that she’s onto something. “Probably. We won’t know for sure until we try.”

  It’ll work; I have zero doubts at this point. Taking pictures and picking at each other comes naturally to us. It’s the kissing and cuddling part we’ll have to work the hardest at.

  I clap my hands together. “Alright, let’s move this little disaster to my bedroom.”

  I jump up with a lot more pep in my step than earlier. My plan is finally coming together. “Are you coming?” I ask, brushing past Vee.

  She eyes me for just a second, staring.

  “What?” I look down at my clothes. “Is there something on my face?”

  When she doesn’t answer, I add, “Do you need a drink to get through one dance with me?”

  I meant it as a joke, but my stomach churns (probably from the salmonella) waiting for her response.

  Finally, she shakes her head and grabs the tripod. “No, I’m fine. Come on.”

  A little anticlimactic but whatever, she didn’t leave or slap me, so I’m calling that a win.

  Nodding, I lead the way to my room where the bed has clean sheets, thanks to Vee and her guilt and, sometimes, sweet heart. I move her chair away from the mirror where she had watched her dumbass horror movie. In my dreams people were screaming, but it wasn’t because they were dying.

  Vee side-eyes me and frowns.

  “You got to sit in it for two hours,” I say. “Don’t act like you’re already going through withdrawals.”

  She doesn’t answer me; instead, she flips me off and begins setting up the tripod. I take the few minutes to re-watch the videos that show the dance steps, so I’m not the one fumbling around while we try this.

  “I think I should be in pajamas when we do this,” she randomly says.

  “Okay.” I shrug. “Doesn’t matter to me what you wear.”

  She hangs her head and pauses her adjustments to the camera. “I’m just saying if I wear one of your shirts or some of your pajamas, it’ll look like I spent the night with you.”

  Oh.

  Oh.

  “Uhhhh. Okay. Sure.”

  My mind has literally been stunned into only producing simple words. She needs to wear my shirt or my pajamas. This is a big step for me. One, I don’t let women sleep over and two, I never give them a memento to take home with them. They come in with clothes; they can certainly leave with them. The last thing I want to do is buy a bunch of nice shit that walks out with my one-nighters. I’d be a broke man. And besides, I haven’t had a woman even see the inside of my bedroom since Vee’s conniving ass dropped that prank on me two months ago.

  “I know it’s weird, considering—” she motions between us, “—our history, but you can give me something old and burn it after I take it off. Just a t-shirt will be fine. It should cover most of my legs.”

  This is not going down at all like I planned. Is it too much to ask for a win today? All I wanted was to see Vee’s shitty dance moves and make her feel just an ounce of the awkwardness that I’ve felt since she’s been here taking care of me. Which is her fault since she just had to have Juan’s toilet bowl tacos.

  I rake a hand through my hair. “I don’t think a t-shirt will work,” I muse, my hand moving to my lips, worrying the bottom one while she’s bent over the tripod, finding the best angle.

  “It’ll be fine,” she says, dismissing my concerns without so much as a glance. “I’ll keep my shorts on.”

  That still won’t help. My dick agrees. When a man sees a woman in his clothes, it sparks this sort of territorial feeling. Now, I don’t know this personally, since I refuse to try it, but recently Maverick did, and he said the saying is unequivocally true. I’m not for feeling territorial and all alpha crazy over a female, especially Vee, the frog saving, horror movie junkie with the mouth of a teenage boy.

  “Do you not have a t-shirt under your hoodie?”

  Vee lifts her head slowly and catches my gaze in the mirror. “It’s not long enough. Do you want me to wear underwear and a shirt that hits at my hips in the video or your t-shirt?”

  An evil grin pulls onto her face, and she adds, “Or I can go back to my place and pull out my flannel pajamas.”

  My lip curls.

  “I’m sure your fans would be shocked to see your girlfriend all decked out in her winter wear alongside her boo in his flannel bottoms.”

  She’s hilarious but knows me well.

  “Fine,” I nearly growl out. “I’ll find you something.”

  Without waiting to see her grin in victory, I stalk over to my dresser and start rummaging through the drawers. I find several shirts I think would match my clothes, but with each one, I find a reason for her not to wear it. I like it. I don’t want to burn it. She might look too good in this one. You know, the basics.

  Finally, in the drawer I never use. The one with the sweaters my mom sends for Christmas, and the stupid pajama sets my sister makes us take pictures in, I pull out a flannel top. One that belongs to the pants I’m currently wearing. I’ve only worn it once in a stupid Christmas card photo that I refuse to look at, but, for some reason, I’ve never thrown it out.

  Considering Vee loves flannel, it’ll be perfect. I won’t mind tossing it when she’s finished. And besides, flannel will kill any boner I might get by seeing her in it.

  “Here.” I toss her the shirt, and she catches it in midair.

  “You want your ‘girlfriend’ to wear a flannel shirt in a video?”

  I shrug. “It matches my pants. It’ll look totally ‘Gram worthy.’”

  I don’t add that the baggy flannel will also make me and my dick less likely to poke her in the back. I feel like she might not take that comment well.

  “Okay. Can you finish setting up while I change?”

  I groan just thinking about her changing in my bathroom.

  “Are you feeling sick again?” she asks, and dammit if her concern doesn’t make my stomach feel weird.

  “I’ll be fine,” I lie.

  No need to tell her the truth. She’ll think I’m being a typical horny dude, and I am, but it’s different when it comes to Valentina. Our history complicates things, and it’s not a territory I want to inch back into. That ship of ours has sunk to the bottom of the ocean where pirates and a Megalodon shark have ravaged it into nothing but pieces. We’re incapable of being put back together.

  “Okay.” Vee gives me one more once over before she heads into the bathroom and closes the door. When I hear the lock click in place, I finally take a breath.

  Why does this girl make everything around me so damn complicated? Even breathing seems hard when she’s near.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s been going off all morning and, just like the last fifteen times, I send it to voicemail. I have been busy dying, so I haven’t had the strength to deal with my mom or my sister. They are just going to have to give me a fucking second to call them back and chat for an hour about when I can come home and visit them.

  I don’t like visiting my parents. At all. My sister, I see more often, but that’s because she forces herself into my life and, since she pays for my house, she also will pay for a locksmith to let her in if I ‘pretend’ I’m not here. She’s pretty relentless when she wants to be.

  “Sebastian?”

  “Yeah,” I return through the door.

  “Will you bring me my bookbag?” Her voice sounds close to the door, as if she’s speaking through the crack. “It’s by the door.”

  “Why?” I return. What the hell does she need from her bag in order to change her shirt?

  “Sebastian!”

  “Fine.” Whatever. I lumber into the living room and down the hall to the foyer and see her bag on the floor. It has a dog hair on the front, so I dust it off and take it to the bathroom. “Here,” I say, “Open the door so I can hand it to you.”

  She does and mutters a quick, “th
anks,” before snatching it out of my hand and closing the door in my face. When she re-locks the door, I mutter, “Okay.”

  Women are the strangest creatures. I’ve never understood them and I doubt I’ll ever truly figure them out completely.

  I plop down in Vee’s chair. It’s surprisingly comfortable. It might look like it’s in need of a new home in a good dumpster, but it does have this comforting quality about it. I sit back and rest my head against the wicker. I feel tired but not tired enough to sleep more. Luckily, I will perk up with new energy as soon as Vee does whatever the fuck she’s doing and comes out of the bathroom. Watching her dance, albeit in my shirt, should be very entertaining.

  My phone buzzes once. It’s a text and not a call. I texted Maverick earlier today and he never responded. I swipe the screen and see the text is not from Maverick, but from my sister. Again.

  Mom #2: Do you want me to leave the Hamptons to come kick your ass? Answer your phone.

  I grin. My sister might live in this fancy house and vacation in the Hamptons but uppity, she will never be.

  Me: Don’t feel good. I’m alive though so let me watch porn in peace and heal.

  Her response is nearly instantaneous.

  Mom #2: I’m calling you and you better fucking answer.

  Ugh. See? This is why I can’t tell her shit. She’s worse than our mom. My phone rings a few seconds later and I know I can’t ignore it. I answer with a loud sigh, so she knows I’m not in the mood to have this chat.

  “Do you think I give a shit that you don’t want to talk to me, little boy?”

  I grin. “Oh, I’m well aware that you don’t care that you’re disrupting my college sinning.”

  She ignores the sinning comment and gets to the point. “What’s wrong? Why are you sick?”

  “Uh…” I chuckle. “Because apart from what most women say, gods can fall to mortal illness every now and again.”

  I love giving my sister a hard time. It makes it easier to deal with her guilt too.

  “Shut up. Tell me what’s going on.”

  There’s no point in lying. She really will come down here and see for herself. “Bad fish tacos last night,” I tell her. “But I’m fine and before you ask, I’m hydrated and I’m not running a fever. Looks like I’ll make it another day to worry you.”

  She’s quiet for a moment and I worry that I might have upset her. “Cal?”

  “I’m here.” She exhales a breath and then, “Bash, are you sure you’re okay? I’m worried about you.”

  I fight the urge to pop off with something shitty. This is my sister and no matter how much she gets on my nerves, I know it comes from a good place.

  “I’m fine, I promise. You have nothing to worry about.”

  She isn’t talking about today. Calista knows I want to leave Georgia like yesterday, but I think now that I’m getting closer to leaving, she worries I might actually follow through with it. Then she won’t be able to force her quality time on me like she does once a month. I’m not saying I don’t love my family but like everything in my life, it’s complicated.

  “Okay,” she responds, sounding unsure. “If you promise. Do you need me to send you some Gatorade or electrolyte drinks?”

  I laugh. “No. I’m capable of going to the store.” And Vee already brought some, but even if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t go to the store. Maverick’s apartment is closer and cheaper.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll stop by next week when I get back, okay? I’ll bring Emmy too. She’s been asking about you.”

  Emmy is my one and only niece. She’s much cooler than my sister, so I don’t mind hanging out with her.

  “Sounds good,” I return. “Tell her I want a rematch in cup pong.”

  We play online, and for a seven-year-old, she’s much better at it than I am.

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  When we’ve finally hung up, I’m tense and ready to alleviate some tension by torturing the neighbor.

  “Vee! You better not be stealing anything!”

  I pound on the door until I hear, “Fuck you.”

  University CamFlix Competition Submission

  Entry Number: 75

  Sebastian and Valentina

  Second Interview Continued, also known as that time I genuinely smiled

  “Her thighs were chafed?” Tom looks shocked as I pry Vee’s hand from my mouth.

  “Yeah, we’d been running and it was hot—”

  “Shut up, Sebastian. I swear to God I will smack you on camera.”

  I grin. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie. It was a hot day and those baggy pants you had on were not the best at wicking away the moisture.”

  I can see the redness spread across her cheeks. I shouldn’t fuck with her like this, because she won’t hesitate to return the favor and share one of my embarrassing stories, but I can’t help myself. “All I’m saying is I knew I loved her when she wasn’t embarrassed to tell me she needed a hot shower and a big tub of Vaseline.”

  I’ve grown a beard in the amount of time I wait for Vee to not open the door.

  “Valentina!”

  I bang on the door with my fist. “Do I need to call the crisis hotline?”

  I might have struggled coughing up a shirt for her to wear, but it looks like she’s struggling to actually wear said shirt.

  “I’ll be out in a minute!” she yells back.

  “You said that half an hour ago. It’s going to be dark by the time you come out of there.”

  Is it sad that I’ve sat here by the door, waiting? Why didn’t I watch TV or at least scroll through MyView? Maybe it’s because I didn’t think I would be waiting a million and eight years.

  I raise my hand to bang on the door again when the lock flips.

  I try the handle and it turns.

  “I’m feeling like this might be a trap,” I say, easing the door open. “Those shitty horror movies you watch usually start with some idiot checking out a room.”

  I shove the door all the way open and find Vee sitting on top of my counter amongst a plethora of makeup. “Did Cover Girl take a shit on my counter?” I can feel my eyes widening as I take in all the containers and tubes.

  Vee makes a scoffing noise and rolls her eyes. “Do women really like that crass mouth of yours?”

  A muscle in my cheek twitches. “They do, actually.” I push off the door frame and take a step forward, invading her space and forcing her legs apart. “As a matter of fact, the crasser I get—”

  She slaps her hand over my mouth. “It was a rhetorical question. I did not mean for you to think I really cared.”

  It’s cute when she tries to act unaffected, but the faint blush on her cheeks is not from the makeup.

  Deciding not to push my luck, I change the subject, nodding to the two tubes of lipstick in her hand. “Can’t decide which color to wear with your outfit?”

  I have an older sister; I know what a—insert sarcasm— ‘struggle’ this can be.

  Vee looks down at her hands and then back at me. “Actually, I can’t decide what color would look best with your outfit.”

  “Come again?” I take a step back, but her legs lock around my waist and pull me forward until my hips hit the counter. “I’m not following.” And if I’m being honest, I’m a little nervous with the way she’s chewing on her lip. “I don’t see how my outfit has anything to do with your choice of lipstick shades.”

  Her gaze drifts to my chest.

  “You’re making me nervous,” I ramble, checking for a camera she might have set up somewhere. “We have a truce,” I remind her.

  That finally snaps her out of it. “You’re so paranoid.” She shakes her head like this surprises her.

  “I can’t imagine why,” I add with a glare.

  The girl who fucked me up so badly that I haven’t been able to date since ‘the incident’ lets out a long sigh. “It’s not a trick. Can you just trust me?”

  I want to be a sh
it and say no. I don’t trust her. But deep down—very, very deep down—my gut tells me I can trust her. She might have tricked me for months, but she didn’t do anything with the information. She didn’t expose me like she could have. I exhale and roll my shoulders back, looking to the ceiling. I don’t want to make eye contact with her. “I trust you.” Sometimes. Occasionally. When I’ve had enough alcohol to make me forget everything. “I trust you more often than not.” There, that’s more truthful.

  I lower my head and see her pained smile. “I deserve that.”

  She does. I’m not even going to lie and say she doesn’t. But she only deserves it this one time. I’m man enough to give second chances.

  “It’s the last time I’ll bring it up,” I promise. “I said we could start over and I meant it.”

  I hold my hand out for her to shake. She switches the lipstick tubes into her other hand and we shake on it.

  “To a do-over. For real this time,” she promises, and for some reason, it really does feel like a do-over. This isn’t a fake shake-my-hand-because-I’ll-say-anything-to-get-you-to-agree-to-my-terms-so-I-can-win-this-money. This is a real handshake—a real promise.

  “For real this time,” I agree.

  We lock gazes for a moment before Vee breaks it with, “Okay. Since you’re back on the trust wagon, can I show you what I mean about the lipstick decision? I sort of need your help anyway. If I keep us too much longer, we’ll lose the good light.”

  I promised a do-over. I promised I would trust her.

  “I’m listening.”

  My stomach does this weird thing like I’m hungry.

  “Okay,” Vee says softly, bringing my attention back to her and not my empty stomach. “If you insist on wearing that shirt—”

  “What’s wrong with my shirt?” I pull the bottom of my shirt out, so I can see it better. “Is it wrinkled or something?”

  The corner of Vee’s mouth crinkles. “No, no it’s not wrinkled. It’s just—”