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“But I personally made it, so it doesn’t taste funny.”
“Thanks. I promise I won’t tell Mom.”
CAL
oBITCHuary: What was it that you wanted to tell me yesterday?
oBITCHuary: Mac? Hello?
oBITCHuary: Super ready for your big secret over here.
oBITCHuary: Rude. I hate it when men with perfect ears think they’re too good for this world just because they have superior lugholes.
oBITCHuary: Yes, I just used the word lugholes.
oBITCHuary: Mac?
oBITCHuary:
CAL
“Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)”—C+C Music Factory
Everybody dance now!
The unreasonable demand blared directly into my eardrums, jarring me into action. It was way too early and I was still in my bed, blinking at the ceiling after another sleepless night.
Was I hallucinating now? Hoped not. I really couldn’t afford therapy.
My head whipped to the alarm clock. Six twenty in the morning.
The singer urged me to take a chance, to come and dance. For guys to grab a girl, not to wait, to make her twirl.
The music shook my flimsy walls, but I had no idea where it was coming from. It was probably Semus, my nemesis, who had decided to up his warfare from sneaker-peeing and messed with the stereo. Was he the one who’d slashed Row’s tires? He certainly had the bravado.
I checked my phone on my nightstand. The music app wasn’t on. I scrambled to my feet in my oversized sweatshirt and dug for my Walkman in my backpack, but it was turned off. Ugh. If I didn’t find the source of the song soon, it was going to wake Mom up.
Everybody dance now!
I raced to my window, flinging it open and slapping my hands over the sill, poking half my body out. What I saw underneath made my heart fall apart like alphabet letters on a fridge, scattering into pieces at the bottom of my stomach.
It was Row, clad in sweatpants with a teal jazz design, a yellow headband on his forehead, and a colorful windbreaker three sizes too small he must’ve borrowed from Dylan. His phone was hooked up to a speaker, jamming out one of my favorite nineties songs.
I rubbed my eyes, blinking the cobwebs off them. Nope. He was still there. Looking like he had gotten tangled in every item in Nicki Minaj’s closet.
He appeared to be a list of things: hot, ridiculous, charming, adorable, and completely out of place. My eyes stung and I couldn’t breathe. All the jealousy and soul-numbing pain I had bottled up the other night when I’d found out he’d dated Allison Murray dissipated into mist, leaving my body.
“Well?” Row glared at me in his Richard Simmons gear, running in place as the song continued playing. He looked supremely unhappy about the situation, tossing a still-lit cigarette butt on the ground in a huff. I bit down a laugh. “You gonna come down here and run, or what, Dot?”
He had done this for me?
He had come here at six twenty in the morning to drag me out for a run?
“Row, what are you doing?” I balanced my ass over my windowsill, shaking my head in fascination. The smile on my face was so big and wide, it threatened to split my cheeks.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” His frown deepened. “Being fucking delightful and helping you overcome your fear.”
“Why?”
