Speechless(11)

                Kristen looks up at me over her cup of beer, one part amused,                     one part embarrassed. “God, Chelsea, you’re a hot mess.” Which is pretty lame of                     her, because her cheeks are apple-red and her eyes are just glassy enough to let                     me know she’s only a fraction less drunk off her ass than I am.

                I ignore the insult and grab her arm urgently. “Kristen,” I say                     again, “you’re not going to believe what I just                     saw.”

                This catches her attention, and everyone else’s. Warren closes                     the refrigerator door and looks over at us, and Brendon comes up next to me.                     Joey hops off of the counter and crosses his arms. Everybody’s gone quiet,                     wondering what I’m going to say. And really, this is the best gossip I’ve heard                     all year. Considering the year is less than an hour from being officially over,                     that’s saying something.

                I don’t know what I expected to happen when I told everyone. I                     guess I thought it’d be a funny story, or at least a memorable one. It’d be the                     kind of thing where later, every so often someone could bring it up by saying,                     “Hey, remember when Chelsea walked in on Noah and that random guy macking on                     each other?” And that’d be the point where I’d jump in and give my firsthand                     account, and everyone would be both amused and scandalized, and maybe Brendon                     would be bowled over by my charismatic storytelling skills and declare his                     undying love for me on the spot. Or something.

                I didn’t realize Kristen would have the reaction she does—which                     is less laughing and more one of extreme disgust, like I just told her that her                     guest room has a cockroach infestation. Once I spill the details, she gives a                     full-body shudder, mouth hanging open with a mixture of shock and revulsion.

                “Oh, my God. Oh, my God! Ew!” she                     exclaims, appalled. “He got fag all over my sheets!” She says it like being gay is a highly                     contagious epidemic or something. My stomach drops, and I open my mouth to say                     something.

                Before I can, Derek Connelly, the team’s small forward, laughs.                     “That dude?” he says. “Seriously?”