The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Dang,” I say, lowering down onto a step and leaning into the banister. “So I take it there’s no way you’d want to stay and hang out, then?” Carmen might be a good person to talk to right about now. I could probably use some advice. I really don’t know the first thing about kissing.

  Maybe I should practice on, like, an apple.

  “I wish,” she says, her expression softening as she looks me over. “But I should get back to work.”

  I nod—easy breezy—though inside I’m racking my brain for ways to trap her here a little longer. It comes to me as she eyes the woodpile, winding up to leave. “How’s the roommate drama going?”

  Carmen pauses, her momentum thrown off. “It’s . . . oh God, it’s been so weird, Gretch.” She collapses down onto the step beside me—hook, line, and sinker! “Especially for our mutual friends. I don’t know how this got so dramatic. I feel like I’m in one of the Koreanovelas my lola’s always emailing me about.” She laughs, almost. “It’s just so cowardly, you know? She still hasn’t had the guts to talk to me about what happened yet. Then again, I basically live at the architecture studio now, so there haven’t been many opportunities.”

  “Is Sabrina still seeing your ex?” I ask. It’s odd saying the name like that: Sabrina, in the third person.

  “No, I heard from a friend that she hasn’t seen him since they kissed. That part does make me happy—that he lost both of us.” Carmen sighs wistfully to the ceiling. “Is it summer vacation yet? I just want to drag our huge donut-mermaid-unicorn floaties out to the beach, lie on our backs, and do nothing.”

  “That sounds divine,” I say, heart warmed. I think that might be Carmen-speak for I miss you, too.

  Her phone starts to go off then, and when she digs it out from her jacket pocket, I see a flash of Henrietta, calling on FaceTime. “Eh. I’ll hit her back later.”

  “Wait.” I blink a moment. “Hen still calls you?”

  She shrugs. “Sometimes.”

  “Well . . . how often?” I ask, unable to disguise the hurt in my voice.

  “I don’t know. We’ll check in while I’m drafting, or while she’s at the gym. It’s not some conspiracy to leave you out. We’ve just both had a lot going on lately.”

  “Oh, well, that’s just wonderful,” I say, grabbing the phone to answer it.

  “Gretchen?” Hen looks surprised there on the screen, in her little workout top, ponytail swinging side to side like she’s on a stationary bike.

  “Yes. It is I,” I say. “Your sister. You may remember me from various moments of your childhood?”

  She laughs. “That does sound familiar. . . . Guess it’s been awhile?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, not even trying to hide how annoyed I am. “Ya think?”

  “Sorry!” she says defensively. “It’s been kind of a whirlwind over here, okay? I have friends! I joined an a capella group! I’m even leading the curve in my organic chemistry class. Take that, nucleophilic aromatic substitution!” Carmen and I share a puzzled glance. “Plus, you’ll never believe it, Gretch. I’ve gone twelve straight days without crying.”

  “Huh,” I say, admittedly impressed. “Does that mean you’re over Lizzy?”

  “Oh God no,” she says, breathlessly. “But I realized after I got back from break, whatever happens with her, none of it can work unless I’m okay here, on my own. If we try this again, no matter how head over heels I get, I can’t turn her into a crutch, you know? Also, I’ve figured out exercise is good for my moods.”

  I nod, vaguely hating how wise my sister sounds right now, not to mention the fact that she arrived at all of these epiphanies without me. Meanwhile, Carmen doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by any of this—which weirdly hurts.

  I know I sometimes resent being the one they dump their drama on, but now that they’ve stopped, I guess I don’t want to be ignored, either? Maybe I’m just a truly impossible person.

  “You okay, Gretch?” Hen asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, shaking it off.

  “Oh crap.” She stops moving in the frame and wipes her face with a towel. “I forgot I’m supposed to meet my friends soon. I should go shower.”

  “No worries,” says Carmen. “I need to get back to work anyway.”

  She and Carmen blow fish-lipped kisses and I wave.

  When the call ends, Carmen eyes the woodpile again, letting out a small, exhausted groan.

  “I’ll help,” I say, getting up with her.

  Each carrying umbrellas, we lug the wood out to her car, back and forth in tandem, until we’re sliding the last of it in and she’s pushing down the hatchback.

  “I’m actually meeting someone near you later,” I tell her, as she walks around to the driver’s side. I bite my lip. Maybe I can give her half the story.

  “Oh, nice,” she says distractedly, fiddling with her umbrella before sliding in behind the wheel. I wait a moment, but she doesn’t press for details. Doesn’t think to ask if there might be a super-hunk awaiting my arrival—to ask me anything, really.

  “I’ve had a lot going on too, lately,” I add, a slight edge to my voice now. “And I’m . . . going to New York. On a trip with my friend.”

  “That’s cool,” she says, peeling off her wet jacket with the door still open. But there’s no when? No why?

  “Carmen!” I say.

  “Huh?” She looks up, and I let out a huffy laugh. Maybe I’m not impossible when it comes to her and Henrietta. Maybe their complete disinterest in my life is actually just kind of shitty. “You know what? You’re welcome,” I say, gesturing to the pile of wood in back. I think I catch a quick, confused glance from her as I turn to go.

  But I just stomp up the steps, ditch my wet umbrella on the porch, and close the door behind me.

  In the hallway outside Jeremy’s door, I take a moment to collect myself, my bad mood tucked away in a box. I’m not thinking about my tiff with Carmen. And definitely not about Sam. Not at all.

  As discussed (with Nacho) I did give Sabrina a casual day, and it’s a bit like the two of us have merged: my grubby leggings, black oversize sweater, and Converse sneakers; her red glasses, eye makeup, and messy buns, which I quickly fixed up in the car a few minutes ago.

  I’m a little damp from the jog up to the building.

  Overall, I think I’m ready. Or as ready as I’ll ever be.

  “Hi,” he says, the door swinging open mere seconds after I knock.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling a prick of excitement as I peer up at him and glance past the threshold. It’s basically the same layout as Carmen and Sabrina’s room, just sort of . . . Gross Boy Edition.

  As if seeing the place through my eyes now, Jeremy spins around himself, stepping in to tidy up some random papers before throwing a single brown apple core into the trash. The little voice pops in, as if to loosen me up: Maybe Jeremy was practice-kissing, too?

  “I had no idea you went to this school,” I say from the doorway when the silence grows too long. “Same as my cousin.” For a moment, I feel a pang of regret. I shouldn’t have been so pissy with her earlier. Back in the box, I tell myself.

  Today is about getting my ass kissed.

  Well, not my ass.

  I almost giggle, shooing the mental image away. What a strange first kiss that would be. Focus, Gretchen!

  Jeremy is back to cleaning, his nervous energy vaguely disappointing. Maybe it’s shallow of me, but I didn’t sign up for nervous. Jeremy was supposed to bring the confidence—enough swagger to get us through all the kissing. Where is that gum-commercial smile?

  “She’s in the architecture program,” I add, the silence growing too weird.

  “Oh, word?” he says, chucking one last rumpled can of Bud into the recycling bin. Similar to the comedy club, the whole room smells vaguely of beer, but not in a way I like as much.

  I frown on a delay, pretty certain word is not a word Jeremy uses in the slang sense very often. Something is definitely off with him. Though I suppose I can hard
ly blame him. There’s a palpable, unspoken awareness as to where this afternoon could go. It’s not actually all that sexy.

  It’s more like . . . excruciatingly awkward.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asks. “I’ve got some La Croix in the mini fridge.” He says it the French way, though I’m not sure that’s correct. I briefly think of Sam and his theories on overpronunciation. But actually, no. He goes in a box, too.

  “Seltzer would be great,” I say finally, walking in and lowering myself down onto his standard-variety dorm room couch. I get out my notebook from my tote bag before he hands me the drink. And I have to say, Natalie was right: it really does help, having something to sip on.

  “So did you come up with anything new?” he asks, eyeing the notebook.

  I feel a swell of relief—talking comedy is something I can do right now. “Okay, so, I’ve been playing around with some material about the whole dog-sibling thing. I have this one bit in my head where my mom is all, Why can’t you be more like your brother? Only . . . he’s a dog.” Jeremy chuckles lightly as he takes the other side of the couch, but he leaves enough room for multiple holy spirits. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down. I can’t take it anymore. “Are you okay?”

  He teeters a moment, just as someone bursts into the room.

  “Dave!” says Jeremy, his voice almost high-pitched as the guy strides past us toward the beds.

  “Sorry,” says the guy, turning to me. “Oh, hey!” Abruptly, he frowns. “Wait. Sorry, I thought you were . . .” He looks at Jeremy. “Dude. You have a type.”

  “Please ignore my roommate,” says Jeremy pointedly. “You know—the roommate who was supposed to be busy all day?”

  Dave winces. “Right. My bad.”

  But I’m just smiling now, sort of enjoying the flush of Jeremy’s cheeks. “I’m your type, huh?”

  The roommate swipes a few books from a bed and turns right back around. “Carry on. I was never here. . . .”

  “He seems nice,” I say when the door closes, returning us to quiet.

  “Yeah,” says Jeremy, picking up his own notebook and tapping it with a pencil. “But, uh . . . don’t listen to him. I mean, not that you’re not my type.” He pauses, seeming confused by the double negative. “I mean, of course you are. You’re pretty and funny and smart. But, um . . . You know what, I’m making this worse.”

  I grin as he scrunches his eyes closed, then scoot over, closing the gap between us on the couch. “Be honest,” I say as he turns to me, his eyebrows shooting up. “Are we really just here to write?”

  He lets out a laugh of surprise and my smile widens. I kind of can’t believe I’m being the brave one. But it feels kind of amazing, to just . . . say the thing! The enormously obvious thing that might have crushed us if left unsaid. I wish I could do this all the time. Instead of letting all of life’s question marks fester, and fracture, and mutate into a million possible what-ifs.

  My intentions are clear now. I want to kiss Jeremy.

  And from the way he’s looking at my lips, I think he really wants to kiss me too.

  He doesn’t move, though. Just stares. And as I peer back into the blue of his eyes, tiny prickles cascading down my limbs, it strikes me how tired I am of watching, waiting, vaguely hoping something interesting might happen to me. Eventually.

  There is no in-between here—I either jump or I don’t. So like toes peeling off a diving board, I let myself lean forward. He leans too.

  And then it happens: our lips meet, tentative at first, until something clicks, each of us softening as we breathe each other in. I’m enjoying the sensation enough to keep my internal monologue at bay for a good fifteen seconds, before the little voice inside starts shouting, Holy shit, I am kissing a boy! I’m kissing an actual, human boy. Is that a tongue? We’ve got a tongue, folks!!!

  I suppress a giggle as his fingers brush my cheeks. I wouldn’t say this is worthy of any swirling cameras, necessarily. And if we were to go outdoors in this rain, I think it would only hinder the experience. But it does feel good. Like, in my body good. Then again, that heart swell I feel for Sam? That part’s not quite there. Is that bad? It doesn’t feel bad.

  The door swings open again and we spring apart.

  “Sorry, sorry . . .” Dave is rushing back into the room, a hand blocking his profile out of respect. “I forgot one of my books. So sorry . . .”

  When the door closes again, Jeremy’s devilish grin has returned—a sign that all is right with the world.

  I bump him with my side and reach for my notebook. “Should we get back to work? These jokes aren’t going to write themselves.”

  We don’t kiss again after that.

  Though there is some tentative doorway leaning a couple hours later. I’m sort of smile-frowning up at him now. There seems to be no natural way of saying goodbye after a day like this, so I just start walking backward into the hallway, snapping finger guns at him like a total freak.

  “Hey.” He catches my wrist before I’m out of reach.

  I hold his stare, our faces close again. “Yes . . . ?”

  “Don’t think I’m going to go easy on you now because of this. I still want that Marnie James slot.”

  I laugh, relieved things haven’t changed too much between us. “Jeremy, it is so on.”

  In the car, I free my hair and chuck the glasses onto the passenger seat. I feel too buzzy to go home, the early hour feeling disjointed from the night sky up above. For a little while, I poke along bumpy cobblestone roads, windshield wipers sloshing as I peer out at streetlamps still decorated with holiday wreaths and bare trees all strung up in lights.

  As I head back over the bridge into SoPo, I’m still thinking about that kiss, feeling excited, and strange, and maybe other things I can’t quite name. Without a thought, I pass the turnoff to my street, and soon enough I’m rolling up to the row of storefronts below Sam’s apartment.

  I wonder if he’s home right now, what he’s doing.

  I wonder if he’s rewatched The Office lately, alone, or with someone else.

  The moment the engine goes silent, the thought lands with a thud: I kissed someone else today. Whatever happens next, Sam will never be my first.

  “Enough,” I say, kicking open the door and making a shield of my umbrella. Sneakers already growing soaked, I race past the hanging plants of Keep Calm Yoga until I’m setting off the jangly doorway bells of Willard Beach Coffee.

  Ethan looks up from wiping the counter with a rag. “Oh, hello.”

  “Hi,” I say, snapping my umbrella shut and leaving it by the door. “I’m glad you’re working. I just had the weirdest afternoon.” I pull a squat chair up to the counter, which puts us at a strange height differential, but whatever. Selfishly, I’m glad it’s empty in here, though I know it’s not great for the tips.

  “You want anything?” he asks. “I’m closing soon but I haven’t cleaned the espresso maker yet.”

  “Sure, I’ll take a PSL,” I sigh. “Apparently it’s a habit now.”

  I watch as he gets to work, feeling as if I’m just now catching my breath—not so much from my sprint here, but from this whole weird-ass day.

  “So . . . what’s up?” he says.

  I laugh, baffled. “Well, long story short, we kissed and now . . . it’s, like, I’m excited but I’m also . . .” I groan. “I don’t know. I guess Sam’s still in my head.”

  “Wait,” he says. “So you didn’t kiss Sam.”

  “No, no,” I say. “We’re not even speaking to each other. This is my gnome-carving guy—well, my stand-up guy. Jeremy.”

  “Gotcha,” says Ethan, some kind of milk apparatus steaming now. “So you kissed Jeremy and . . . ?”

  “And then I came here,” I say. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess . . . How was it?”

  “Oh.” I consider this. “It was fine—good.”

  His face falls. “That bad, huh? Did he lick your teeth?”

/>   “What?” I start to laugh. “No, Ethan, he did not lick my teeth. That’s not a thing.”

  “Oh, it’s a thing,” he says with a shudder. “Art camp. Summer after eighth grade. It was not a pleasant first kiss.”

  “Well, this was a perfectly fine first kiss. Better than fine,” I say quickly. “It was . . . fun. Although . . .” I blink a moment. “Is it weird the guy didn’t know my actual name? I guess I should feel guilty about that.”

  “Look at you,” says Ethan. “The duplicity. The scandal!”

  “Something tells me this guy can handle it. He’s . . . very suave,” I say, frowning. “Like, maybe too suave? Although today he actually seemed pretty nervous.”

  Ethan shrugs, lips forming a line. “Well, maybe he just really likes you.”

  “Eh,” I say. “I think he keeps it pretty casual.”

  “And is that what you want? Casual?”

  I roll my eyes, throwing my hands up. “Do I look like someone who knows what she wants, Ethan?”

  He laughs under his breath, then pours my drink into a for-here mug on a saucer, a little heart forming in the foam. “Well, here’s to you figuring it out, Gretch.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Hey, did you decide if you’re going to Natalie’s birthday thing tonight?”

  I puff my cheeks. “No. I guess I should come up with an excuse. . . . I really can’t risk running into that chef from the competition.”

  “I mean, the restaurant will probably be pretty packed. And dark.”

  “Yeah, but what if we bumped into each other with everyone from school there? What if he mentioned the show, or called me Sabrina? It could blow up pretty fast.”

  “He might not even be working,” says Ethan. “And it’s gonna be fun. If you want, I could help. Show me his picture. I’ll . . . run interference.”

  “Maybe . . .” I say, sipping, thinking. “I actually do want to go. . . . And I definitely don’t feel like sitting at home all night with my obsessive thoughts.”