by Lili Valente
But she’s not a piece of ass, she’s Libby, and I’m clearly more wasted than I realized. Time to cut the scotch, load up on carbs and water, and hope I can sober up enough to avoid being completely hungover tomorrow for Libby’s first lesson.
Surely I can be back to normal by then. Especially if I can find a woman willing to come home with me and finish celebrating my birthday with a large pizza and half a dozen orgasms—for her, at least. I’m a generous man, and I’m happy to spend an hour with my face buried between a woman’s legs, getting her off again and again.
Anything to keep my mind off imaginary naked Libby.
But an hour later, as the party begins to wind down, I’m still alone. None of the women rubbing up against me on the dance floor arouse more than the dimmest flickers of lust, and when I finally fall into bed around midnight, I have to fight the urge to fantasize about a certain brunette’s incredible breasts as I jerk off.
The struggle is real, but I manage, and drift off to sleep hoping things will be back to normal when I wake up, though deep in my gut I know that my relationship with Libby may have changed forever.
It feels like something wild has been let out of its cage, and it’s not going back in without a fight.
Chapter Five
From the texts of Libby and Laura Collins
Libby: Good morning, sunshine. How are you feeling?
Laura: *puking green face emoji*
*vampire emoji*
*stabbing knife emoji*
Libby: You’re a puking vampire who needs to be put out of your misery?
Laura: No, I’m a puking vampire. The stabby emoji was for you.
Why are you texting me at the butt crack of dawn, you freaking sadist?
Libby: It’s almost noon, Drunky Mchungoverpants, and I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes. I just wanted to check on you before I turn off my phone.
Laura: What kind of appointment? Are you getting a massage? If so, can I come, too? I need someone to rub the toxins out of my muscles.
God, why do I ever drink, Libs? I seriously cannot handle my liquor.
Libby: You think?
Laura: Ugh. I’m sorry. It was just a shit week, and I wanted to blow off steam like a normal twenty-seven-year-old.
Can you forgive me? I didn’t embarrass you too terribly, did I?
Libby: No. You told the Lyft driver that he was sexy in an ugly way—like Mick Jagger with smaller lips—but he had a sense of humor about it, and I managed to get you into bed before you passed out.
All in all, it was a good night on the babysitting end of things.
Laura: That poor man. I hope I at least tipped him well?
Libby: You gave him a twenty and a kiss on the cheek.
Laura: Good. And I’ll tip you, too, little sis.
How about team suite tickets for the game next weekend? You can drink, eat your weight in crab cakes, and watch Jus kick ass on the ice, and I’ll be the babysitter who gets you home safe.
Sound good?
Libby: I think so. Let me touch base with you on Monday or Tuesday and let you know for sure I don’t have other plans.
Laura: Why would you have other plans?
Oh my God, did you meet someone last night?!
Shit, you did, didn’t you!? The boob shirt worked its magic and you met someone and now you’re going to get lots of dick and quit obsessing about Roger!
Libby: No, I didn’t meet anyone!
And I am not obsessing about Roger. I like Roger. There’s a difference.
Laura: Um, no, there’s not. Roger is a dink, and what you need is dick.
Wear the boob shirt again this weekend to the game and I’ll make sure you’re in the same suite with the guys from that cybersecurity firm that hired all the super-hot new techies. They will be helpless to resist you. You’ll probably get laid in the bathroom before the game is even over.
Libby: That’s what you said last night, and believe me, people had NO trouble resisting. The boob shirt and I were complete failures.
Laura: No you weren’t! Last night wasn’t a fair test.
You were at a party with a bunch of cocky professional athletes who think they’re God’s gift to pussy. You wouldn’t want one of them, anyway. Trust me. They’re awful. Even Jus is just barely tolerable, and that’s only because I’ve known him since we were in seventh grade and I have photographic proof of his pimple stage to bring him back down to earth when he starts being an arrogant prick.
But the sexy nerd boys will TRULY be unable to resist. You’ll have them crawling on their knees, begging you for a date in no time. I swear.
Libby: I don’t want sexy nerds or professional athletes. I want Roger.
Laura: Yeah, I know, but you haven’t been with anyone since college, sis.
Don’t you think it’s time to get back in the saddle? I mean, I know having the guy you lost your virginity to decide to become a priest totally sucked, but that’s no reason to completely give up on peen. Peen can be a lot of fun, you know?
Libby: I’ve got to go. My appointment’s about to start.
Laura: Seriously, it doesn’t have to be about true love or forever, Libs. It can just be about fun, mutual enjoyment, and proving to yourself that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Because there isn’t, you know.
Libby: I’m not having this conversation right now, La.
Go back to sleep. I’ll text you later.
Laura: I mean it, Libs. You are perfectly normal and so is your poose.
I asked the woman at the place where I made you go get waxed with me, and she swore you were all A-OK down there.
Libby: OH MY GOD, YOU DIDN’T!
TELL ME YOU DIDN’T ASK A COMPLETE STRANGER ABOUT MY VAGINA, LAURA?!
Laura: She’s not a stranger! She’s been waxing me for almost six years. We’re practically family! And she would never tell anyone.
Libby: Oh, right! But she WILL tell my SISTER all about MY VAGINA!
Laura: Can you stop screaming that word at me, please? You know I hate it.
Especially first thing in the morning.
Libby: VAGINA! VAGINA, VAGINA, VAGINA!
Laura: Fine! Be mad and aggressive with your use of the V-word, but I was just trying to help! That’s what big sisters do! We help.
And then we get drunk and make you take care of us, and then we rededicate ourselves to helping even more than we did before. So come to the game with the boob shirt. Let me help you, Libs. I love you so much, and I just want you to be happy. And I know Roger is your happy-ever-after guy, but it wouldn’t hurt you to have a “just for fun” guy to help build up your confidence before you go after Roger full throttle and prove to him that you are the answer to all his romantic dreams.
Libby: Grrrr…
Laura: Don’t growl at me. I’m a friend. I come in peace.
And in puke.
God, I think I’m really going to puke…
Please forgive me before I have to make a run to the bathroom.
Libby: Fine, you’re forgiven.
Go puke. Text you later.
Laura: xoxox
*martini glass emoji*
*skull emoji*
*toilet emoji*
Libby: Indeed. xoxo
Chapter Six
Libby
I can never stay mad at Laura for long. She means well. And then there’s the fact that I’m a dirty, filthy liar who lies, a fact I’m reminded of every time Laura mentions helping me “get back in the saddle.”
The truth is that I’ve never been in the saddle, so I can’t very well hop back onto it.
Brett and I made it to third base and that’s it. By the time I was ready to go all the way, Brett was ready to take a vow of celibacy.
He broke the news the day after he went down on me for the first time, an act that he clearly found so repulsive that it left me with a lingering fear that there is something not right about my lady parts. No matter how many times I’ve checked things out with my hand
mirror or compared my situation to the wide variety of poose available for viewing on the internet, I still have an irrational fear that I’m like the mouth of a giant evil sandworm down there. Like something from Beetlejuice or Tremors or other 1980s movies that combine the fear of massive toothed worms and things lurking beneath the sand for horrific effect.
It’s silly, but I can’t seem to help it.
So I suppose I should be grateful that Laura took it upon herself to get third party reassurance that my lady bits are shipshape. But the fact that my sister has picked up on my phobia without me having mentioned a word about it is so mortifying that I want to crawl under the covers and hide for a few years—or however long it takes to convince myself that my face isn’t silently telegraphing “I have concerns about the adorableness of my vagina.”
But I can’t hide. Justin will be here any second. He texted from the sandwich shop down the street just a few minutes ago, and I have to make sure I’m ready to hit the ground running as soon as he arrives.
Scurrying around my apartment, I get out the whiteboard and a set of multi-colored markers I use when I’m brainstorming lesson plan ideas, fetch my laptop in case Jus needs to pull up visual aids on the Internet, and track down the list of concerns and proposed areas of study I jotted down last night over a cup of Sleepy Time tea.
When the coffee table is prepped for lesson time, I glance down at my outfit—brown linen pants with ruffles at the bottom paired with a brown linen pinafore dress with a sheer, long-sleeved top underneath accessorized by chunky jewelry—and consider going to change into something sexier and less me. But in the end I decide to stay as I am. Roger and I rarely cross paths outside of work hours and these are the kind of clothes I wear to teach—professional and cute, but loose-fitting enough to facilitate sitting on the floor with a roomful of kindergarteners, helping clean up blocks and toys, and scooping Simone up under one arm and running her to the girls’ room down the hall when she inevitably waits too long to get in line for our classroom bathroom and is on the verge of an accident.
The poor kid. It’s hard being the youngest student in class. I was homeschooled until the ninth grade, but I vividly remember how mortified I was to learn that I was the only thirteen-year-old at Capital High. But at least I’d had Justin and Laura there to show me the ropes.
And now Jus is going to show you the ropes all over again. Except this time, he’s going to instruct you on the finer points of how to suck a man’s cock.
My cheeks flame at the thought. The only thing that keeps them from catching fire is the knowledge that we surely won’t get that far along in the lesson plan today. Like I tell my students, it’s best to put first things first, and there’s a lot of ground to cover before Jus and I get to anything below the belt. The valley of my ignorance is deep and wide, with acres of undiscovered country standing between me and anything that wild and uninhibited.
“And Roger might not even want to do things like that,” I murmur to myself as I put the kettle on and pluck another gardenia-peach tea bag from the box. I mean, surely not every guy foams at the mouth at the thought of a woman kissing him where he pees. That’s at least partly urban legend, right?
I’m about to trot into the living room to add that question to my list when the doorbell rings, setting my pulse to racing.
It’s time. He’s here.
I hurry to the door, anticipation and nerves mixing in my bloodstream. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal, it’s just Justin, but then I open the door and he says, “Hey,” in this oddly husky voice and my pulse stutters before rushing even faster.
“H-hey,” I stammer, voice breathy.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve looked into those dreamy hazel eyes a thousand times before and never felt anything more than affection for an old friend. But now I’m newly aware of the handsome planes of his face, the silkiness of his nearly-black brown hair, and the way his shoulders seem to take up the entire doorframe. I can’t keep from staring at his big hand gripping that brown sandwich bag, and thinking about what it felt like to have that hand pressed flat against my fluttering stomach last night.
I had assumed the tingle attack at the bar was an anomaly brought on by a mixture of dating-related despair and too much alcohol, but maybe I was wrong.
And maybe these lessons are going to be even more awkward than I expected.
Chapter Seven
Libby
“Should I come in?” Jus nods meaningfully toward me, making it clear I’ve been standing here staring at him for too long.
“Yes, of course. Sorry.” I move out of the way with a nervous laugh, flapping my hand toward the kitchen on the other side of my microscopic entryway. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea or water or juice?”
“Still anti-soda?” He shrugs off his coat as he moves inside, sending a whiff of his Justin scent drifting my way. He smells even better than he did last night—a combo of soap, fresh air, sea salt, and a hint of toasted bread from the sandwich shop that sort of makes me want to bite him. It’s a completely foreign urge, one that is shocking enough to make me stumble over the welcome mat as I close the door.
“You okay?” Jus asks, arching a brow.
“Fine. Two left feet, as usual.” I ignore the mouthwatering smell of him and head to the fridge. “And yes, I’m still anti-soda, but I’ve got sparkling fruit-flavored things. Orange or cranberry; choose your poison.”
“That’s all right. I’ll stick with tea,” he says, holding out his paper bag. “I brought you half of my second sandwich. You still love the Vietnamese veggie, right?”
“Yes, thank you.” I accept the bag and tuck my future dinner onto the top shelf before shutting the fridge and turning back to him, feeling off-center in a way I’ve never felt around Jus. “That was thoughtful.”
“No problem.” He nods a little too long, his gaze fixed on the tile, before he sucks in a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh. “So, I’ve been thinking about this, Libs…”
“Yes?” My throat tightens. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve changed your mind.”
“I mean, of course I want to help you, but I have no idea where to start, and—”
“That’s okay!” I say with forced brightness. “I made a list last night and I’ve got study materials all ready in the living room. That should get us started, and then we can just let the lesson plan flow from there. I’m good at lesson plans, and you’re good at getting people to date you, so this should really be a no-brainer.”
“Right. Okay.” But he still refuses to lift his gaze from whatever fascinating thing is happening next to my feet, and when he speaks again he sounds as uncomfortable as I feel. “So what’s the first thing on the list?”
“I can’t remember. I’ll have to look at my notes. You want to wait in the living room and I’ll get the tea ready? You’re still Earl Grey with extra sugar, right?”
“Yeah, thanks.” He casts a longing glance toward the door before reluctantly moving toward the living room.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I squeeze my eyes shut and give myself a silent pep talk—
Stop being crazy! Stop it! Right now! This is Justin.
So you’re feeling weird fizzy things around him. So what? It doesn’t matter.
He’s a drop-dead gorgeous professional hockey player who lives up to his bad-boy, womanizing reputation, and you’re the world’s oldest virgin elementary school teacher. He’s a shark who roams the open sea banging all the sexiest, most beautiful and successful female sharks, and you’re a goldfish who’s never been out of your bowl.
He’s so far out of your league he might as well be another species, Libby, and even if he weren’t, he would still be completely off-limits. He’s practically family and has already mentioned several times that he thinks of you as a little sister.
Besides, Roger is the one you want. This is just physical weirdness, nothing that can’t be overcome.
So get in there, push through t
he awkward part, and get the information you need. New things are never easy, but you can’t afford to screw up what might be your only chance to turn your non-existent love life around.
Bolstered by the wisdom of the inner voice, I arrange the tea things on a tray and carry them into the living room to find Justin standing by my craft nook in the corner, flipping through a pattern book.
He turns, glaring at me over his shoulder as he holds up May the Force Be Knit You. “How was this not my birthday present, Collins? Star Wars crochet and knitting patterns? My inner yarn nerd is freaking the hell out right now.”
“Take it, it’s yours.” I laugh at the pure delight that flashes across his face. “I’ve got so many projects lined up I won’t get around to anything new until next Christmas, anyway.” I set the tray down on the coffee table. “And I’m sure your followers will go wild over a shot of you wearing nothing but Yoda ears.”
“Or Wookie gloves.” He flips through the pages as he flops down onto the couch beside me. “Or Jabba the Hutt fat folds! Jesus Christ, Libs, did you know you could crochet your own ring of neck fat folds? I need to get online and order some of this nasty red-orange yarn right now.”
I giggle, grateful for the reminder that Justin is as much of a complete dork as I am. He may be a shark on the outside, but on the inside he’s got a little goldfish in him. It’s why we’re every bit as close as he and Laura are, and why this is going to be completely fine. I just need to remember his goofiness and forget I ever noticed that he is just as hot as the ice bunnies who hang around the arena after the games say he is.