* * *
KAY: If it is, then I don’t want to be right. *crying laughing emoji*
I don’t know why I waited to reach out, why I didn’t text them right away. Lord knows it would have saved some of my stomach lining if I did.
Any time I really get down on myself, venting and purging to them—typically in drunken Woe is me fashion—they never make me feel like I’m crazy. Instead, they remind me how it’s sort of become a running joke in our crew that anyone close to CK had to force their friendship on him.
I get it, given his history. He’s practically been conditioned to dislike and mistrust all manner of jock.
It’s kind of ironic how one of the reasons behind my mother signing me up for cheer was to make me more desirable of a love match, yet the guy I’m crushing on sees it as a negative.
Still…if two of the three people closest to CK don’t think I’m off my rocker for holding on to my crush, who am I to give up?
ME: I’m not catfishing him.
* * *
EM: *Mean Girls “Boo, you whore” GIF*
I don’t know what would be worse, having CK fall for me because he thought I was someone, something I wasn’t, or…losing him because of who I actually am.
EM: Damn, now I feel all guilty and shit.
ME: What? Why? I love that movie.
Mean Girls is a staple in the movie rotation of our girls’ nights.
EM: Because I’m the one who suggested he sign up as a beta user for that app to help him grow and become more confident. Somehow I thought if he did, it would open his eyes to what’s right in front of him. You know, YOU, Q.
Her words warm my heart.
ME: There’s NOTHING for you to feel guilty about, babes. Did you forget I was the one who revamped his profile? You may have set the wheels in motion, but I took on the role of his pimp.
Oh my god, that’s it.
I bolt up in bed, Herkie letting out a disgruntled snort as the blankets pool around my waist.
ME: Holy shit! Em, you’re a genius. I could kiss you right now.
Here she is feeling guilty, but her plan actually worked. For the first time in eight months, CK and I had a full-on solo interaction without him running away or shutting down. I mean, sure, the topic of discussion was how he’s failing at keeping other women engaged in conversation, but…
What if I take those same writing prompts he complained didn’t provide any follow-through and use them for us to get to know each other better? Could doing it under the guise of the app accomplish what Em suggested?
I could probably beat out the Flash for the Guinness Book of World Record’s fastest texter with how quickly I type out my plan to the girls.
Now…
Where the hell are my Post-its?
#CHAPTER9
* * *
UofJ411: *REPOSTED—NJA_Admirals: The next great partner stunt duo learning from the best—reel of Kay and JT coaching Olly and Livi at The Barracks*
*Le sigh* Can we at least get your siblings to cheer for us if your girlfriend won’t @CasaNova87 #CheerEnvy #SchoolSpirit #CasanovaWatch
@caligirlheartsbooks: Aww, look who’s back from vaca #WeMissedYou #Kaysonova
@emilybunnyauthor: At least they keep it in the family #CasanovaWatch #Kaysonova #FamilyMatters
#CHAPTER10
* * *
I have been a morning person since the day I was born—at least according to Abuela Lupe. Sure, I may enjoy giving her hell for the fun of it, but I can’t argue the fact that the day I came wiggling and screaming into this world, it was at the wee hour of 5:43 a.m.
So, yeah…that’s me. I’m a regular morning glory.
Why am I telling you this? Well, outside of how this fact has earned me more knife emojis than I can count from Kay and Emma this past school year, my love for all things single-digit hours has *leans in and cups a hand around mouth to share this secret* grown.
Yup, you heard that right.
I, QUINN THOMPSON, LOVE MORNINGS EVEN MORE!
Move over, early bird! Your feathery behind has zero chance of snagging that worm now that I spring up in bed like that dad in the old board game Don’t Wake Daddy.
Nope, now my legs are uncovered, and my feet touch the floor all before the devil himself gets the chance to mutter, Oh, shit, she’s up.
I’m sure you’re asking yourself, but why, Quinn? What changed to add a Pop Rocks-esque pep to your morning routine?
Well…it’s simple—CK happened.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know my crush on him started embarrassingly long ago, but…
Now…
Oh. Em. Gee!
It’s like all the months of unrequited love-fueled angst I lived with have been forgotten, overridden by the giddy excitement I’ve felt these last two weeks. Love notes from a crush will do that to a person.
Ugh! Okay, fiiine. If you’re going to get all technical about it, they aren’t love notes per se, but a pen pal-type exchange of getting to know you Post-its, scribbled with writing prompts specifically chosen and crafted to hopefully allow me to sneak past an overly guarded guy’s defenses.
And…
If you really want to be a dick about it, I’ll relent and admit that the exhilaration from CK actually opening up to me may have made me slightly delusional.
Whatevs.
Deluded or not, my plan is working. And before you even start with me, it’s not like my plan is evil. I’m not some villain slowly spinning around in a chair, methodically stroking a hand down a cat as I dictate a plan for world domination.
For one, the only domination that interests me is seeing if my suspicions about CK’s sexual preferences are correct. For another, my partner in crime during week one of Operation Covert Amorous Correspondence—or CAC for short—was a canine chomping down on a plushy taco toy the entire time I hemmed and hawed over what my opening question should be.
Does a wingdog, a squeaky toy soundtrack, and an arsenal of glitter pens and rainbow-colored Post-its scream evil to you? I didn’t think so.
I’m perky and sociable, not diabolical.
Like the fourteen mornings before this one, I jack-in-the-box out of bed, but then I freeze when I step on one of the Barney-purple balls strewn all over the floor.
Balancing on one leg, I lift my foot, peeling the crumpled Post-it from the sole. I glare at one of the remnants of my indecision, its existence taunting me.
The three shots of tequila I downed for liquid courage last night swirl around in my gut, trepidation skittering down my spine in the fresh light of day.
Ay dios mío.
What did I do?
Unfolding the paper in my hand, I smooth out the wrinkles and creases, staring at the now illegible scribbles I crossed out of existence. Based on the tiny hole punctuating one of the lines, I may have been a bit aggressive in all my vacillation.
There are seven similar paper balls scattered across the hardwood, and it suddenly feels like there’s a land mine field between my bed and the door.