Skylar, Skylar, Skylar…

Damn. I can’t stop saying it in my mind.

“Her name is Skylar?”

“That’s what she said it was—was she full of shit?”

I ignore his question. “And that’s what you wore on your date with her?”

“It wasn’t a date—so what if this is what I wore?” JB looks down at his hoodie, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I went straight from the gym.”

“You look like you don’t give a shit.”

JB shrugs, stretching his shoulders and rolling the knots in his back. I hear it pop. “Because I don’t. I’m not there to make conversation.”

“Then what the hell is it you’re doing?”

“You know I eventually want a girlfriend, but sometimes all I want is to get laid, bro.”

“Which one was it tonight?” He knew this girl was the serious type; he said it himself—he’d seen her cardigans and knew she wasn’t the kind of girl you nail and bail.

“A blowjob wouldn’t have killed her, but she was obviously not the type.”

“What makes you say that?”

He looks disgusted. “She was dressed up. Everyone knows that place is a shit-hole.”

“And yet you keep taking girls there. Class it up, dude.”

“Like I can afford to?”

Here’s the thing: he totally can afford to. JB gets a stipend from the university for being an athlete and an allowance from his parents.

I think he rat-holes it, though we’ve never actually discussed it.

I don’t get why he’s being so cheap.

He was never like this when he was dating Tasha. I remember when they first met, he tripped all over himself, trying to impress her with home-cooked meals and expensive dates. When she dumped him, he actually sulked around the house for a good three weeks, all pissy and moody.

Then one day, it’s like he woke up and had suddenly snapped out of his funk. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” he told me one morning in the kitchen while shoveling cereal into his face from a giant mixing bowl and using a soup ladle as a spoon.

I stare at him now, blankly. “You know what, I don’t think I can do this for you anymore. Clean up your own messes and find your own fucking dates—I’m done.”

Jack stares, confused. “Why?”

Why?

“Because I do everything but wipe your ass, JB. I help with your homework, I find you chicks to date, I clean up after you around this place. You don’t even know where the trash cans are.”

“Yes I do—aren’t they on the side of the house?”

“No, they’re on the side of the garage by the alley. Jesus, Jack—grow up.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He reappears from behind the refrigerator door, shoving a hunk of pineapple into his gullet. “You can’t tell me to grow up because I don’t know where the fucking trash cans are, dude.”

I realize then that no matter what I say, it’s not going to sink in with him.

“Take some responsibility. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Honestly, what is your fucking problem right now?” He continues to eat, swiping a bagel off the counter and jamming that in his hole, too. “All I did was be myself tonight. I don’t get what the issue is.”

He’s right.

All he did was be himself, and I need to chill out.

This is my business, but it’s none of my business, which makes the whole situation kind of fucked up.

“You’re right. You’re just doing you.”

Still, he cocks his head to the side as he chews, studying me. “You want me to message her and apologize or something? She seemed pretty pissed when she stormed off.”

“She stormed off?”

He tears a chunk off the bagel with his teeth. “Yeah, in a huff or whatever.”

Crap.

That’s not good.

“I doubt you’ll be able to come back from her storming off in a huff.”

“Do I really want to? She wasn’t into it, and neither was I.”

“Probably a lost cause.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, using his forefinger to stuff in the last bite of bagel.

But, ten minutes later, when I close the door to my room and sink down onto my desk chair, I can’t stop the guilty, nagging feeling inhabiting the pit of my damn stomach like a slowly spreading plague. I swivel, facing the bed, then rock back and forth, unsure.

Disconcerted.

This is none of my business.

Leave it be, Abe. No good will come of this.

It’s a shame I don’t listen to my own advice, fingers already opening LoveU and tapping on Blue’s profile. I compose a message before I can think twice and change my mind.

Cause apparently JB isn’t the only idiot in this house.

Me: Hey. Have you blocked me yet?

The little bubble at the top of the app appears then disappears. Then reappears again—which means she’s typing.

Stops.

Types.

Then,

BlueAsTheSky: I thought about it but haven’t yet.

BlueAsTheSky: Obviously.

Me: Are you open to apologies?

BlueAsTheSky: I guess that depends; what are you apologizing for?

Me: Being an ass.

BlueAsTheSky: I’m listening…

BlueAsTheSky: But I have to be honest—I really didn’t feel like we were a good match, and I’m not going to say I want to remain friends, because that’s not why I’m doing this.

Me: I get that. And I’m sorry.

BlueAsTheSky: For what exactly? Say again and say it in my good ear.

Okay. This is a good sign; she hasn’t blocked me yet, and she’s still talking to me—I mean, Jack—which means she was pissed but isn’t a completely lost cause.

Me: For being a complete asshole.

BlueAsTheSky: Not COMPLETELY…I’m sure there are worse guys out there than you. LOL

Me: I don’t know what my problem was. All I can honestly say is I don’t normally act like that.

BlueAsTheSky: What do you normally act like, then? Because I’m going to be totally honest—that seemed like status quo behavior.

BlueAsTheSky: I’m not looking to be a notch on anyone’s bedpost.

I can’t resist saying, I don’t have bedposts.

BlueAsTheSky: Too soon for jokes, bro.

Me: Did you just call me bro?

BlueAsTheSky: LOL it felt like the right moment.

Me: Indeed it did.

Me: Anyway. I’m glad you didn’t block me, because I feel like a dick about the way I acted tonight. I came from practice and was distracted, and that’s shitty but it’s the truth.

BlueAsTheSky: It’s fine.

I have a strange feeling if we were having an actual conversation about this, in person, she’d be saying It’s fine in a way that means it’s not fine at all—the way girls say it when they’re setting a trap and want to argue.

Bet her lips would be pursed. Chin tilted up.

I wonder what Skylar looks like in person, since I’ve only ever stared at the few photos she uploaded in the app. We haven’t sent selfies—I couldn’t even if I wanted to, since I’m pretending to be Jack.

BlueAsTheSky: No harm done. But I don’t think I want to see you again—sorry.