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“I’m not.”
“You were at their apartment. And J-One cooked. And you cuddled with J-Two on the sofa. And you made out with both. That about right?”
“Yup.”
“Screw you, bitch. Eat shit and die.”
“Love you, too, babe.”
There is a bit of chat silence, and I check my emails, finding one from my brother. He moved to Seattle to work, and I rarely hear from him. Not that he has much to say. Work is fine, bars are fine, blah blah—still, it’s nice of him. I should reply.
Next I check my blog. There are literarily hundreds of comments on my last installment of my serial, telling me how much they love it and when the next chapter will be up.
I really should get cracking on it. I’ve never missed an installment. I always post one every week, maximum two, as much for my readers’ enjoyment as for my own.
And I have ideas. I have a file full of them, and notebooks filled with scribbles. Even diagrams. I glance at them, look back at the blog.
Maybe later. Or tomorrow.
Feeling out of sorts, I’m glad when the chat window dings with another message from Connie. She lives in Detroit, which isn’t all that far, but we’ve never met in person. We’re besties, though, having bonded years ago over books and movies and boys.
“Now tell me the truth,” she writes. “Did all that really happen, or is it a new chapter of your serial?”
“It happened,” I type back.
“Bitch, this shit doesn’t happen in real life.” A single open-mouthed emoji. “Fantasy doesn’t get mixed up with reality. Fantasy boyfriends remain fantasy boyfriends, and we get to adore them from afar.”
“I know.” I look at these two words.
I do know that. That’s how it was supposed to work. Joel wasn’t supposed to walk into the bookshop looking for a banana book, and Jet wasn’t supposed to apply for the job at the store and get it.
And they both weren’t supposed to show any interest in little ole me.
Talk about a shocker.
“Tell me about them,” Connie orders me through the chat, but somehow I don’t feel the compulsion to do as she says—unlike when Joel says it.
I’m in trouble…
Also, I don’t want to tell her. About Joel’s history books collection and cooking skills, about Jethro’s art and the comic they’ve been creating together. About their banter, and their gruff affection for each other. Their kisses—Joel’s possessive and deep, Jethro’s hot and wild.
“They’re nice,” I type reluctantly.
“Nice? NICE?” Insert r
ows upon rows of angry and puking emojis. One of them is waving a tiny flag that says “Fuck” on it. “Did you fall on your head, Candix? Who cares if they’re nice?”
I do. And they are.
“Oh my frigging God, woman.” Tongue-lolling emojis this time. “Did you see them shirtless? Does Jethro have tattoos? Is Joel as ripped as he seems? Did you check out his package?”
And now I’m annoyed with her, and I can’t even decide why. We’ve been discussing this stuff since forever, but now I find myself strangely… protective of my boys.
The Candy boys.
Oh God. No. I hardly know them. Knowledge of their bare chests and cocks won’t change that. So what if they kissed me?
They aren’t mine.
