So, That Got Weird: A Painfully Awkward Love Story (So Far, So Good Book 1)

by Amelia Kingston

  He puts his arm on the bar behind me and leans in close enough that I can smell the alcohol oozing out of his pores. I have the urge to scream ‘Personal space invasion!’ but I bite my lip and keep silent. My back stiffens and I lean away as far as I can until it hits the bar behind me. He pushes his thumb inside the sleeve of my T-shirt, massaging my biceps intimately.

  His hot breath is on my ear as he pants, “You know what’d make it better? If it were on the floor next to my bed.”

  Bile rises in the back of my throat and panic surges through my body. Sure, this guy is hot, but I don’t want this. This isn’t me. I pull my hands into my chest. “No, thank you.” My voice is shaky and it comes out a question. That only seems to encourage him.

  He moves his other hand to my knee. Condensation from the beer he’s got pinched between two fingers seeps into my jeans. I feel violated by the cold, wet, unwanted sensation.

  “What nice manners. I’d love to hear you say pretty please. On your knees,” the stranger croons into my ear.

  I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to shove him away. I can’t. I’m frozen in place. He moves his hand up my thigh. My entire body goes rigid and my eyes go wide. I look to the girl next to me, silently pleading for help.

  She sees the sheer terror on my face and snaps, “Hey, creep! Leave that poor girl alone.”

  “I’m just being friendly,” the guy answers. He pulls away from me, a lecherous grin slashing across his face.

  “Why don’t you go make friends with your left hand? I think it’s getting jealous,” she quips.

  The guy just holds up his hands in surrender, shakes his head and walks away.

  Once I’m able to breathe again I turn to the patron saint of hopeless women and thank her for intervening.

  She gives me a tight smile. “You know, if you don’t respect yourself, no one else is ever going to respect you either.”

  “Ah, okay,” I answer, not really sure why being harassed by an asshole at a bar is somehow my fault now. Trying not to seem ungracious, I add, “Thanks again.” I give her a shaky smile and a quick wave. She just nods and returns her attention to her friends. I down the rest of my warm, flat soda before making my way to the nearest exit and into an Uber faster than I can say ‘Friday night fail’.

  “Jackie, you’re an idiot,” I tell my best friend as soon as I get home.

  She rolls her eyes at me and sighs.

  “No, I’m a genius. You’re just doing it wrong.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks. I didn’t realize there was a wrong way to get molested by a stranger in a bar!”

  Jackie quirks an eyebrow. “There certainly is. And if you weren’t enjoying it, then you were definitely doing it wrong. Was he hot?”

  “Yes, he was hot. And he was also crass, overbearing, drunk and had a serious misconception of my personal space boundaries.”

  “Jesus, you and your Goldilocks vagina are impossible. This guy is too shy. That one’s too aggressive,” she mocks in a high-pitched voice that is epically condescending. “They’re boys, not bowls of porridge. Just pick one and dig in already.”

  I can’t form a response. Creepy fairytale analogy aside, she’s totally right. The guys I like are too shy to ever make a move and the guys who do make moves go too fast. It’s the same every damn time. Either they run away or I do. Fizzle or explosion. I can’t find a middle ground. My just-right Mr. Right.

  It seems hopeless. I’m doomed to wander the earth untouched and unloved forever.

  “I guess there is one other thing you could try.” Jackie’s tone has a familiar deviousness to it. She’s waiting for me to take the bait. And, because I’m an idiot, I do.

  “And that is?”

  “Hire an escort.”

  An escort? That’s crazy. Extreme. Ridiculous. Flat-out insane. Isn’t it?

  I pull up my web browser and type ‘male escort’ into the search bar. Big mistake. Huge. Massive. Throbbing. Mistake! I close the browser and try to purge the last thirty seconds of G-strings and gyrating-hip pop-up ads from my memory banks. Why do men think leopard print is sexy? I don’t want to be mauled by your penis, thank you very much.

  Dialing it down a notch, I have better luck searching ‘college hookups.’ The first few links are all Maxim magazine-type articles explaining the dos and don’ts of the college hookup. Spoiler alert, vomiting on a guy is a turn-off. I’ll file that gem away for later reference. Halfway down the page I hit pay dirt.

  Scoreyourscore.com.

  It’s a website designed for people to rate their sexual partners. You can sort by campus, age, gender, sexuality, kinks, etc. It’s sexual Yelp. Too much nipple play. Nimble tongue. Sloppy kisser. Ridiculous stamina. Micro penis. Two-pump chump. Meat curtains. Do. Not. Google. That! It goes on and on. Men and women both detailing their exploits. This handy website is a goldmine of data.

  I don’t know how to read people, but data I get. Data speaks to me in a language I can understand. Right now, it’s telling me, somewhere in all this hay, I will find my needle. That special someone to take my virginity. A brilliant if slightly deranged idea begins to form in my twisted brain. I don’t need a professional—more of an experienced amateur. I open up a spreadsheet and go to town, more optimistic than I’ve ever been about taking the next step in my womanhood.

  Chapter Two

  Elizabeth

  I’ve always hated my father’s study. It’s too big and it smells stale. It makes me feel insignificant. Decisions about my life were made in this room and I was never the one making them. Stepping across the threshold, I’m twelve years old again.

  ‘Stop fidgeting, child,’ my mother’s stern voice calls out.

  ‘Richard, are you listening to me? Your daughter has made me the laughing stock of Montgomery Preparatory Academy.’ She taps her foot. It’s her rattlesnake tail, warning that a strike is coming.

  ‘How so?’ my father asks, his eyes focused on the papers in front of him.

  ‘Percilla Ellison ambushed me in front of the entire Council of Concerned Parents! She claims our daughter is a threat to the other children. That she is obsessed with the gruesome and morose.’

  In biology lab, I told Becca Ellison a severed head can remain conscious for up to twelve seconds, which is both accurate and cool. Becca thought it was a threat. I don’t know how to be normal, but for my mother, I try.

  ‘I thought it was interesting.’

  ‘Hush, child.’ I hate when she calls me that, like I’m not hers. ‘Why is she so odd?’ my mother asks the universe. She looks me over with a sigh, her forehead wrinkling in disapproval. ‘Posture, Elizabeth. Do you want to grow up a hunchback?’

  I pull my shoulders back and stand up straight.

  ‘Harriet, I have a conference call in five minutes.’

  ‘I am withdrawing her from that school. I refuse to subject our family to gossip.’

  ‘But I li—’ My mother silences me with a glare that could turn a saint’s heart to stone.

  ‘She can have tutors here at the house.’

  ‘Fine, dear.’

  ‘People will ask why she isn’t attending school. I can’t claim she is gifted. Perhaps she is ill? Too morbid. Delicate.’ With one simple word, my life is changed.

  Banished to my room for the rest of the night, I log into my computer and get lost in another world. A world where I have friends. Where I’m not a disappointment and a mistake.

  “Loitering is unbecoming, Beth.” My father’s voice pulls me out of my memories. I step farther into his study, unsure of why I’ve been summoned. My father is sitting behind his desk, Mr. Phillips, our family attorney, in the chair facing him. I haven’t seen him since after Mother’s funeral. He came by with papers for Father to sign. When I introduced myself, he smiled, patted me on the head and gave me a candy. I was fifteen. It didn’t occur to me to be offended at the condescending gesture. I thought he was a sweet old man.

  “Sit,” my father commands, gesturing to the seat next to Mr. Ph
illips. I do as I’m told, crossing my ankles and laying my hands in my lap, my shoulders back.

  Mr. Phillips greets me with, “Good to see you again, Elizabeth. You have grown into a lovely young woman.” I give a demure smile and blush slightly. “I understand you’ve recently had a birthday.”

  “Yes. I turned twenty-one last month.”

  “Lovely. That is actually why I’m here. Do you recall after your mother’s passing, I mentioned a trust she left for you?” I nod, although I don’t particularly recall the conversation. “Now that you are twenty-one, you have full access to the trust. I just need you to sign a few papers.” He leans over and pulls out a folder. I don’t bother reading any of the documents he lays out in front of me before I sign them. “Oh, and your mother left this as well.” He hands me an envelope with my name written in Mother’s delicate scrawl.

  She wrote me a letter? Mr. Phillips continues, explaining to me how much is in the trust, how I access it and a bunch of things I should care about but don’t. My mother took the time to sit down and write to me before she died. My hand is shaking and my eyes struggle to focus through the tears building in them. I clutch the letter to my chest, covering it with both hands, and stare up at the ceiling, willing away the emotion.

  Mr. Phillips standing up beside me startles me back into the moment. We say pleasant goodbyes and I run up to my old childhood room, eager to be alone with my letter. I perch on the edge of the bed, wipe the stray tears out of my eyes and take a deep, calming breath. The anticipation of what my mother could have wanted to say to me before she died is causing my heart to race. I push down the nerves and peel open the back of the plain white envelope, being careful not to tear it. I pull out the single sheet of plain white paper folded into thirds and set the envelope down next to me on the bed. Opening the letter, I stare down at the beautiful, curling letters my mother’s hand formed for me so many years ago. My heart sings and my chest is full. I read slowly, savoring every word because they are the last I will ever have from her.

  Elizabeth—

  Unfortunately, this money will not make you the woman I hoped you would be. When I am gone, remember the traits I struggled to engrain in you. Try not to be so odd. You carry my legacy into the world. Do not make a mockery of our family.

  Always,

  Mother

  My uncontrollable tears soak the page, smudging the ink and blurring my mother’s final words. It doesn’t matter that they are no longer legible. They are forever carved into my broken heart.

  * * * *

  Familiar voices echo in my ear through my headset as I trudge through my game. What is normally my escape, my safe place, hasn’t kept my mother’s haunting words at bay. I’m following Jackie into battle, but my mind is somewhere else. My heart isn’t in it.

  “Lizbit, get your shit together,” she snaps at me. I nearly sent my army into a crossfire. It’s the third time she’s had to tell me to focus.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. I struggle for another thirty minutes before we give up, failing to vanquish Jackie’s latest in-game rival. We log out of the game, but she keeps our voice chat up.

  Let the inquisition begin. “That’s it. You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on. You’ve been out of it all week and I’m sick of getting my ass kicked while you’re off in la-la land.”

  “It’s nothing,” I deflect.

  “Bullshit,” she challenges. “Did you get a B on a test or something?”

  “Nothing that traumatic.”

  “What then?” She waits for my answer.

  My mother’s words torture me in the silence. “I got a letter from my mother.”

  “I thought she was dead.”

  “She is.”

  “Creepy.” Jackie isn’t the most sensitive soul. “And?”

  I sigh and pinch my eyes shut. The image of my mother’s disapproving scowl confronts me in the darkness. “She basically said I’m her legacy, so don’t be so weird.”

  Jackie laughs. Her cackles fill my headset. “So?”

  “So? I’m a disappointment.”

  “Spoiler alert, babe. We’re all a disappointment. My mom wants me to be her little clone. Just because she loves spending her free time barefoot in the kitchen, she expects me to be Betty fucking Crocker. No thank you.”

  I don’t point out that her mom is also a successful real estate agent while Jackie has been a barista in her grandpa’s coffee shop for five years and counting.

  “She’s right, though. I can’t even have a conversation like a normal person. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s time I tried a change.”

  “If you want to change, then change. Be something else. Someone else. Just do it for you, not for her. She was a bitch when she was alive and she’s still a bitch post-mortem. Who gives a shit what she thought?”

  I do. I care. I need to make a change.

  * * * *

  I plop down in the seat across from him with a thud. The university library is so quiet the sound echoes through the nearly empty study hall. For someone so small, I’m surprisingly graceless. My mother’s turning in her grave. It doesn’t help that I’m so panicked to talk to him my knees practically gave out underneath me. I swallow down the lump in my throat, try to ignore my own awkwardness and press on with this crazy plan.

  He looks up at me with a questioning expression. He doesn’t even know who I am. But I know him.

  Austin Jacobs, hot jock and sex god.

  I’ve been sort of stalking him for a week now. There are no voodoo dolls or Photoshopped wedding photos in my apartment. I’m a little nuts and a lot weird, but I’m not full-on Fatal Attraction crazy. I trolled his social media and watched him studying here a couple of times. Nothing restraining-order-worthy. I might have also read every one of his scoreyourscore.com reviews. A few times. Maybe more than a few times. The boy’s got skills and he’s not shy about using them.

  It was all data collection. For science. Or so I keep telling myself now that Austin stars in all my personal fantasies. Tedious hours spent poring over what Jackie has dubbed my ‘devirginizer’ spreadsheet all point to him as the ideal candidate. He’s gorgeous, chronically single, selfless in bed, doesn’t kiss and tell and is financially anemic. He’s on a football scholarship, but has to work a couple nights a week too.

  Five minutes ago, positive he’s the one, I dove headfirst into the deep-end of my own stupidity. Now, with his inquisitive eyes staring back at me like I have a giant rhinestone dildo sticking out of my forehead, I’m drowning. I wish I were back in the shallow end of the social pool with the rest of the rejects, stupid yellow floaties on my arms and all.

  This has got to be the worst idea I’ve ever had. And that’s really saying something. I once cut my own bangs after watching a YouTube video. Lots of hats that summer.

  My brain shouts at me to say something and I wonder how long it’s actually been since I sat down. I think it’s just a few seconds, but I space out when I get nervous. And sitting across from Austin is more than enough to make me as edgy as a frat boy at a DUI checkpoint on a Friday night.

  Austin is six feet two inches of the all-American dream. Dirty-blond hair, crystal-blue eyes, pearly-white smile, lean muscles and a deep tan across his athletic body from all those football practices in the sun. He could have given Mother Teresa impure thoughts.

  “Strategic Management Sixth Edition.” At a loss for my own words, I read out the title of his textbook. “Good choice. I hear the first five editions were garbage. All strategy and no management,” I deadpan, hoping to break the ice.

  He doesn’t appreciate the joke. He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even move, but he’s staring at me. Those baby blues are filled with wonder.

  Wonder is too benevolent a word.

  Not curiosity either.

  Confusion.

  Yep. That’s it.

  Maybe a bit of annoyance too.

  I certainly know how to make a great first impression.

  “That was a joke.”
I try to talk my way out of the discomfort his constant gaze and my continued idiocy are causing. “You know? Ha ha?”

  Nothing.

  He’s watching me, his face stoic and unreadable. My heart is racing. I’m sweaty, but my mouth is dry. I look anywhere but at him. I would rather do the chicken dance naked in front of a full house at Carnegie Hall than be in this seat right now. I’m suddenly rethinking every life choice I’ve ever made that led me to this moment.

  Abort. Abort. ABORT! Get out of there, Elizabeth!

  “Oh, I thought jokes were supposed to be funny. My mistake,” Austin quips back as a devilish smirk spreads across his lips.

  He’s funny. Who knew?

  I’m stunned into momentary silence, but I can’t control the smile that creeps onto my face. I’m nearing a panic attack, but his relaxed, easy manner makes me believe there’s at least a small chance this won’t end in a flaming catastrophe.

  His eyes take in the five-foot-two tangled mess in front of him, from the frizzy brown hair on top of my head down to the baggy jeans and sneakers on my feet. He’s trying to figure me out. Good luck, buddy. I’ve only ever managed to figure out what I’m not.

  Not cute. Not tall. Not confident. Not brave. Not sexy. Not friendly.

  Not normal.

  “Touché. I guess comedy is in the ear of the beholder.” I shift in my chair, determined to avoid making eye contact. He’s so beautiful it’s hard to look directly at him. He’s the sun and I’m asking to get burned.

  “I’m Austin Jacobs.” He reaches out his hand. It seems oddly formal.

  My mind flashes back to Mr. Phillips patting my head. It’s hard to feel like a woman when everyone treats you like a child.

  “I’m Elizabeth Wilde.” I reach my hand out. His hand engulfs mine, his fingers swallowing my palm entirely. His grip is gentle, but the visual is intimidating.