Are You There, Karma? It’s Me, Jane.: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

by Zolendz, Christine

  This was actually one of my Mr. Perfect fantasies, but this time I don’t think it’ll end the way I imagined it would. I press myself as far back into the wall as I could. There needs to be a lot of space between us right now. I feel like I could do something foolish at any moment. Like grab onto him and sob.

  “Are you okay?” Nate asks in a whisper.

  “What, me? Yeah…no, nothing’s wrong. I’m good. Just great, yeah,” I manage, horrified.

  “You look really pale,” he says, which prompted an outburst of strangled laughter and choked-up fake giggles from me.

  His smile gets sadder and it swells an ache in my chest. I rub at it, numbly, wishing they would both go away, the ache and Nate.

  “Look, I’m fine, really. I just feel…well, awkward honestly,” I say.

  “Me too.” He sounds relieved. He grabs me gently by the wrist and walks me over to the two large vanity chairs by the mirror. He looks around the restroom, impressed. “Even the bathrooms in this place are upscale. Here, sit down for a minute with me.”

  I sit down. He sits on the chair beside me.

  For some unknown reason, this makes me want to cry. I scrunch up my face and stare down at my shoes. This most definitely is not the way I pictured seeing Mr. Perfect again.

  “Listen,” he says softly. “I think both of us might want to say things that we felt that day during the game…but maybe we shouldn’t.”

  I want to close my eyes and make his perfect face go away. He’s exactly how I remembered him, and I hate myself a little for it, but I can’t help wishing he would just lean forward and kiss me again. Just forget Julia, she has so many other guys interested in her. Why can’t I have this one?

  He takes a deep breath. “Maybe since our lives took us in other directions, with me and Julia…God, you know I just don’t…I don’t want to hurt her, she’s beautiful and sweet.”

  “And she’s perfect for you. I know,” I sigh. In my head I scream, “What about me?”

  “I’m not saying don’t tell her about the kiss. You can if you want. We weren’t serious or anything yet, so she wouldn’t be upset. She’d probably laugh at the situation with the whole Kiss Cam and us feeling like we had to kiss.” As he’s saying the words, my reeling thoughts screech to a halt. He felt like he had to kiss me.

  I can’t let him tell her, because if he knew the things I said about that kiss, the plans I stupidly made because of it? I would be mortified. He doesn’t need to know how it felt for me. How it feels for me right now, sitting in front of him wishing, somehow, I had never gone to that game, or maybe if I didn’t get the intern’s coffee spilled on me yesterday, maybe then Nate and Julia wouldn’t have slept together and then maybe—

  Maybes don’t matter right now, do they? There’s no “What if?” in this situation, there’s only what is.

  “Nah,” I say, plastering a smile across my face. “Let’s not say anything, because then she’ll feel weird if me and you become friends.” I stand up and feign indifference with a carefree shrug and a “Who cares?” gesture. “Like you said, we were on camera, we had to kiss. If there wasn’t the Kiss Cam, we would have never even realized we were sitting next to one another.”

  Something in his expression tells me I’m wrong, but I don’t stay to ask about it. It’s done. I found Mr. Perfect and he isn’t the perfect guy for me. Now I just have to figure out a way to forget all about it and move on with my life.

  Back at my workstation, Julia has opened a Tinder account for me and has my profile already made. All on my phone, the one I left on my desk before my mad rush to the bathroom.

  I don’t want to deal with this right now.

  She glances up at me. “Where were you? And why are your eyes all red?”

  I cringe from her question and try to find that fake smile I was just wearing for her boyfriend to slap back on my face. “Bathroom,” I say, coughing. “And my eyes are red because I had a really messed-up article to do and I actually have to do it. It. Doooo iiiiiit. And how do you know my phone’s passcode?”

  “What? Seriously,” she gives me a knowing smile that I really don’t understand. “Janie, you are so predictable. Your passcode is always your birthday. But why is writing the article messing with you?” She looks down at my phone again, reading some guy’s bio. “It’s not like you don’t hook up with a random every once in a while.”

  Who does she think I am? Never, ever in my life have I hooked up with any random person. I’ve never had a one-night-stand.

  “Uh, well, you know, it’s just,” I attempt to explain, but the formation of full thoughts and sentences elude me. I flop into my desk chair and pluck my phone out of her hands. I’m exhausted and it’s only half past ten in the morning. “I need more coffee.”

  “I’ll send Richie out, no worries. I’ll hit him up on text right now. Caramel latte with skim milk?”

  “No, better make it regular milk, but that sounds perfect. Thank you.”

  I watch as her thumbs speed over her phone and zone out. She slips it on the desk when she’s done and tickles her fingers along my arm. “So, what did you think of Nate? Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s a little more than gorgeous, though, right? Let’s be honest,” she moves closer to me and pulls on my blouse. “His body is tight. And the way he kisses, it’s just full-bodied, you know what I mean?”

  Yes, unfortunately I do. I flatten my lips together so I don’t speak the words out loud.

  “Last night, before having the hottest sex in my life, we all went to Brothers Grimm for drinks. I told you, right?” Yes, I know, and if Richie the Intern wasn’t so blinded by your hotness, he wouldn’t have made me spill my coffee all over my clothes yesterday and I would have gone and beaver blocked you from your perfect night.

  “He brought a really nice friend. Maybe we could set you up with him so we could double date?”

  I wave my phone at her and offer my most sincere smile. “I have my Adventures in Tinderland to get to, so maybe after that.” Or after I throw myself off the roof of this building.

  God, I want to tell her what I’m going through. We have such a wonderful friendship, and looking at this and what it’s doing to my insides at the moment, I’m afraid of what I will eventually feel. I don’t want to resent Julia for just being Julia, the one who is beyond beautiful and just got to Nate first. If I told her, what would she do? As my friend, would she break things off with Nate? But then what? How would our friendship be then? It’s not worth it.

  She’s drawing heart-shaped doodles on her notepad. “Nathaniel Cross. Does Mrs. Julia Cross sound good?”

  “Um, sounds perfect,” I grumble, swiping left on Tinder to everyone.

  Chapter 5

  It’s Thursday night. I worked from home this morning, which is code for I had a spa day. Manicure, pedicure, massage, and waxed as bald as a baby’s bottom.

  Welcome to the Adventures in Tinderland, I’m your host Jane Nash.

  I take a quick video and a few snapshots of the restaurant I’m sitting in and the date that’s walking toward me. The captions read: The epic saga of The One Night Stand begins in 3, 2, 1 #HeLooksDifferentThanHisProfilePicture #LikeHeHadHair

  “Wow,” he says when he reaches the table where we agreed to meet. “Aren’t you…cute.”

  Aren’t you…bald…and possibly ten years older than you promised? I slap a smile on my face so wide it actually hurts. “Well, thank you. I guess.”

  And over a candlelit table at this shitty chain restaurant with its cheery, perky wait staff, I explain the article to him. He does what any other man in the universe would do: yanks my chair closer to his and jams his tongue down my throat. Jonathan Theodore Titan Gaster Junior is his name, “But everyone just calls me Jon-boy,” he says.

  Jon-boy. I repeat it in my head a few times.

  There is no way in Hades I’m calling a grown-assed man anything that ends with boy. Not without laughing hysterically in his face, anyw
ay.

  After reclaiming my tongue, Jon…boy asks the waitress for the check, snapping his fingers wildly in the poor girl’s face.

  I sip at my drink and choke as I swallow. “But we didn’t even order dinner…”

  “Let’s get right to this article you have to write. It’ll save time and money and you’ll get your research done. It seems fair.”

  I pull up the camera on my phone and snap a picture of the check when the waitress places it on the table: First rule of a one-night stand: Never begin with it being a one-night stand. Especially if you’re hungry. #CheapAssDate #NotEvenAnAppetizer #ProtitutesGetPaidMore

  The waitress offers me an uneasy smile when he throws down just enough money for our drinks and hurries for the door. I record a live feed of the back of his shiny head rushing toward the exit, his hands waving me on.

  “Hold on, Jon, wait,” I say as he tugs me down the street quickly. My legs can’t keep up with his, and just to match his pace, I’m jogging alongside him.

  “Jon-boy,” he corrects me, pulling me close to wrap his arms around my shoulders. His lips collide into mine again and my back presses against the outside wall of a building down the street of the restaurant. His tongue is insane, pushing into my mouth like he’s trying to touch my tonsils.

  I lean away.

  “I live just down the block,” he whispers, dragging his hands across my backside and squeezing a handful of my bottom.

  It actually makes me feel a bit wanton. Maybe a little bit like Julia. Maybe I should try and push myself outside my comfort zone and just go with it. I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s shameless and dirty. Julia does this stuff all the time—well pre-Nate and his quintuplet Ohs. She says hooking up with random guys is today’s reality.

  It’s just never really been mine.

  Jon’s hands lift up and pinch lightly at my nipples. The sensation makes me kiss him back; giving in fully to the deplorable dirty things I suddenly want to have done to me. He could take me up against this wall right now and we could be done with it. I’d never have to see him again—just this once taking what I need—and walking away without any care. I suddenly feel powerful.

  I bite my lip as he grabs onto my hand and pulls me farther down the street. There’s a big old Victorian house at the end. A beautiful wraparound porch hangs off the front, but that’s all I see because his hands yank down the cups of my bra and his lips and tongue are sliding down my neck.

  We’re at a side door of the house and my shoulders shove up against it as something rock hard just under his zipper rocks into me. Somewhere inside the house, a dog yaps continuously.

  His hands fumble with the keys. His fingers are shaky, he’s out of breath, and it’s arousing that it’s because of me. I’m doing this to his body.

  This is what you’re missing, Nate Cross.

  We stumble awkwardly through the door, slamming up against a wall. He kicks at the door, trying to close it, but doesn’t reach. Cursing underneath his breath, he backs away from me and shuts the door behind him.

  Next to me, a wet nose nuzzles into my hand. I jump away with a squeal.

  “That’s Mr. Fluffy Pants,” he whispers against my neck, grabbing the hem of my shirt and lifting it over my head.

  His dog lifts up his head and watches. My shirt lands on his floppy ears.

  Our clothes fall everywhere as he walks me, kissing and groping, through a long hallway and into a dark room. The dog’s claws scratch along the floor with us. I freeze in the doorway.

  Mr. Fluffy Pants licks the back of my hand.

  But that’s not what gives me pause. Nope.

  What gives me pause, you ask? Well, that would be the smell.

  Jon…boy flicks the lights on and I swallow back a gasp. “Is this your little brother’s room or something?” I ask, holding a hand over my nose. It reeks of sweat and cologne and sweat, then multiply that times fifty and pour in some more sweat.

  I swear the dog is whining because he has sympathy for me. He jumps on the bed and sniffs then growls out another whine. “Jon,” I croak behind my hand.

  “Jon-BOY,” he corrects, again.

  “It stinks in here.” I cough.

  His eyes get round, and he holds up a finger. “My bad. Laundry day isn’t until tomorrow. Hold on,” he rummages through a huge pile of clothing that I swear have those wafting cartoon smell lines waving above it, pulls out a bottle of generic air freshener, and starts spraying down everything.

  When the room is saturated with the smells of a beach, he points to the small bed. “Hop on.” His eyebrows wiggle.

  I totally lost the mood. And honestly, I think there’s probably a weight limit to the single-sized bed he’s pointing to, and Mr. Fluffy Pants is already taking up most of the space.

  “I’m not sure about this…” I stutter as I watch him pull Mr. Fluffy Pants off the bed by his collar.

  “I promise you a night you will never forget.”

  That’s not enticing if it ends with me wanting to forget about it. But I follow him down and squash in next to him. I don’t know why I do. My stomach is rumbling. There’s a dog watching my every move, and I’m about to have sex with a complete stranger. My giant ass hangs off the bed.

  His elbow leans on my hair and I’m pinned to the bed awkwardly. He doesn’t notice. He just yanks down his boxers and pulls out his penis.

  And I’m saying the word penis in the nicest way.

  He shifts himself up on the narrow bed, making me tumble onto the floor. He sits up chuckling and helps pull me up, cock-level.

  And now I’m looking Jon right in the dick.

  “Oh, Jon,” I say it with heavy pity.

  “Jon-boy,” he whispers, running his fingers along the length of it.

  I smile up at him, no longer having the inclination of leaving out the boy part.

  It’s the strangest dick I’ve ever seen. I was at once entranced and horrified. He didn’t seem a big fan of manscaping. The main attraction was quite thin, having the same girth as say, my thumb, with a crooked mushroom top that looked more like a top hat on a frail old man. If the aforementioned old man wore it on, say, his ear.

  “Oh, lemme get some condoms and lube,” he mumbles to himself, reaching over me and opening up a drawer.

  I blink up and freeze in abject horror and absurdity. As he twists his body, right there on his left ass cheek is a tattooed rose that says Mom.

  I sit back on the bed and try to figure out a way out of this mess.

  Across the room, sticking straight out of the wall is a very furry, life-sized horse head. I’m paralyzed with the craziness of it all, and I barely feel him sliding my panties down my legs. The only thought I have is I hate the fact that I wasted a good waxing for this.

  I take a deep breath but before I could let it out, his head is between my thighs. Jon-boy is touching his tongue to my clit and violently shaking his head, trying to turn his entire face into a vibrator. As he motorboats my girl parts, I tap open my phone and make another post: Men Stop believing in the myth. Just move the tongue. Women as a whole do not appreciate the whole motorboat thing between our legs. Thanks. #WorstThirtySecondsOfMyLife

  Immediately after starting, he pulls his head up triumphantly and smiles, “Nice, right?”

  “Can I…um…use your bathroom?” I say, jumping up.

  He rolls his eyes and waves to the door. “Two doors down on the right. Don’t go up the stairs.” He looks at me hard, “Stay. Down. Here. Okay?”

  What’s he hiding? His last date chopped up into tiny bite-size pieces or pureed and frozen in little ice cube trays?

  Just focus. A one-night stand should not be this hard. I close myself in the tiniest bathroom on earth and look at myself in the mirror. My face has a look of mild panic across it. I run cold water over my hands and dab my cheeks softly with them. I sneak a peek through his medicine cabinet, looking for any medications for sexually transmitted diseases. I find a lot of bottles of antacid. And a myst
erious bottle of something neon blue. I clutch my cell phone to my chest and read through my all my social media. My one-night stand is trending. So is #HorseHeadFucking.

  If he puts that horse head on, that would lead to a whole new level of awkwardness.

  I take a few images of his bathroom and make it into a collage centered around a selfie of me looking absolutely terrified. I caption it: I can feel myself shifting from the: I’m a young sexy single woman phase to a fresh new get me the fuck outta here panic mode.

  One of my wonderful followers on Instagram has made a poll about this whole debacle—fifteen percent of my followers believe I’m too much of a chicken to go through with this—eighty-five percent of the people thought I was an eighty-year-old woman.

  Fuck this. Sex with motorboating Jon-boy should last no more than five minutes. How much worse could it get?

  I walk out and try standing in the doorway seductively. It takes him a few minutes to realize I’m back. He was busy…petting the horse head.

  “I love to get a little freaky in bed, don’t you?” he asks, those stupid eyebrows bouncing up and down.

  I eye the horse head. “No. No, not really.”

  He eyes the horse head as well and frowns. “I have these plastic handcuffs I could…”

  “No thanks, really.” I slowly sit next to him.

  He shrugs and pops open a bottle of lube with his teeth and squeezes out a handful. That’s right, a handful into his palm. Then he slathers my nether regions with it. I gasp out fifty shades of put that shit away. I don’t think he heard.

  There has to be a blurry spot in my memory, because the next thing I know, Jon-boy is humping the inside of my leg with complete wild abandon. There’s so much lube down there he thinks the cavernous gap of my thighs is my vagina. I have found the loophole to this disaster. There’s seriously no penetration going on. He better hurry or this shit is going to get real sticky.

  “Hey, can you put in the article how big I am?” he pants, slamming his pint-sized penis into my thigh.

  “Um, yeah sure.”