Sex Says(76)

“Oh, I didn’t even see you there.”

The unfamiliar voice had my eyes moving upward until they reached the face of a guy I had never met in my life. He sat down in the chair beside mine, and right off the bat, introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Jon.”

I just nodded and offered a halfhearted smile. Normally, I would’ve done the polite thing of introducing myself, but I wasn’t in the mood. Small talk with some random guy outside the laundry room of my building felt as appealing as writing a column that told the world I, Lola Sexton, thought Reed Luca’s existential outlook on sex, dating, and relationships was pretty fucking spot-on.

“I’m from out of town,” he said with a smile. “Wyoming.”

“Cool.” Why was he still talking?

“I’m staying with a friend,” he continued on. “I was the designated driver for the night, and everyone else is upstairs passed out.”

Either Jon wasn’t too good at reading social cues, or he didn’t care.

He slid his phone out of his pocket and appeared to have found something to busy himself with that didn’t include talking my unwilling ear off.

I internally sighed in relief.

“Tonight is my last night here.” He glanced up from his phone. “I just really want to find something fun to do.”

Obviously, I had jumped the gun. This guy’s words washed the relief right out to sea.

“Well, Jon, there’s really nothing fun to do on a Monday night.” I humored him with a response.

“I just want to make my last night in San Francisco memorable.”

Memorable?

Instantly, I had the urge to giggle, but I stayed strong, swallowing it down and forcing a neutral expression on my face.

He tapped and swiped his fingers across the screen of his phone, and I offered up a silent prayer that he’d managed to occupy himself with Candy Crush or Pokémon Go.

“I’ve been swiping right on everything on Tinder,” he admitted out loud and then looked at my phone and back up at me. “Are you on Tinder?”

Sweet baby kittens. He wasn’t trying to catch Pikachu; he was looking for a Tinder-bone.

The absurdity of the situation caught up with me, and it was a domino effect after that. One snort turned into two, and then the laughter burst from my lungs, on a mission to fill this guy’s ears with the soundtrack of my amusement.

With staccato gulps, track one merged into track two, and my album of laughs reached showstopping sound levels. I legitimately couldn’t stop. No longer little giggles, I was full-on clutching my stomach with howling laughs.

Every time I thought about his words, I laughed harder. And as tears streamed down my cheeks, Jon just sat there, helplessly witnessing my possession of hilarity.

“Why is that funny?” he asked, a self-conscious smile cresting his lips.

Shit. Instantly realizing my laughter had gone on for far too long, I started to feel like a certified asshole. As my guffaws weaned and slowed, awkwardness started to set in. I didn’t have a clue how to answer his question and maintain his dignity at the same time.

I looked at Jon and Jon looked at me, and I did the only thing that came to mind. I reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for that, Johnny boy. Thanks for making my night memorable.”

Johnny boy? Holy hell. I’d just made the situation worse.

My flight response kicked in, and the need to extract myself from the room was too strong to ignore. I hopped up off the chair, bypassed the elevator, and all but sprinted toward the stairs. Once I was safely inside my apartment, I leaned my back against the door, and my head hit the wood with a quiet thud. I savored the sweet relief of silence, but it only lasted briefly.

My fucking laundry was still downstairs.

Son of a bitch. I could not go back down there.

But sweet baby Jesus, it was literally laundry day. Unless I wanted to start wearing period panties from high school—let’s not deny that we all have them—I needed to get my awkward ass back downstairs.

I paced the living room, and Louie looked on from his fish bowl.

“Now what do I do, dude? I can’t go back down there.”

Blup. Blup. Yeah, he gave zero fucks about my laundry debacle.

I needed a disguise.

Sunglasses and a baseball cap? Not discreet enough.

The penguin costume from three Halloweens ago? Yeah. I’m sure that wouldn’t be weird at all—leaving Johnny boy high and dry and coming back down in a giant black-and-white footie-d suit.

While I was trying to figure out if I needed to revisit the sunglasses and hat idea, my phone vibrated in my hand, and I glanced down to find another text from Reed.



Reed: Shall I assume you need another 24 hours?