“I thought so too, but she was so different just now. She was kind of cold. It’s like all of a sudden she doesn’t have a soul.”
“Who doesn’t have a soul?” Will whispers hot in my ear and sends an entire swarm of imaginary worms crawling up my back.
“You, for one. Why can’t you find another party to crash? Where’s your doe-eyed trollop? She drop the class because she can’t stand your bad breath?” True as God, I might drop dead from the lethal gasses he just emitted.
“You’re a real comedian.” He takes off his jacket, and the familiar cologne threatens to smother me to death. Funny how just months ago I thought Will was special—my someone special—and here he turned out to be just your garden-variety asshole. It goes to show what a warped lens “love” can add to the equation. Simply remove cupid’s stupid arrow, and ta-da! you have a remarkably lucid relationship forged on the grounds of consensual and, oddly, legally documented sex.
I glance at Professor Nicholson when the words legal document pop into my brain. Funny she used those very words. Does she know? She couldn’t.
Baya’s lids roll up like shutters. “I just had a brilliant idea!”
“Yeah, so did I.” Will flicks his finger over one of Baya’s sketches. “You let me develop an interactive app that sells this crap globally, and we can shut down this class and split the take.”
“What’s your brilliant idea?” I’m far more interested in what Baya has to say rather than taking in any more toxic emissions spewing from Will’s mouth.
“You may be closer to your Baker’s dozen than you think.” She nods towards Will as if he meant something.
“Baker’s dozen?” I’m half amused. Was I supposed to pick up bagels this morning? Then it hits me. “Oh, that!” I slit a quick glance to William Abercrombie Richie. I guess I did screw him, so technically he qualifies. He could provide some input as far as my graph charts go—of the negative variety. Plus, then, when I sleep with a real man—which I will this Saturday (I’m looking at you, Wyatt James) it will bring up the boys’ average as a whole. Who am I kidding? If that bulge Professor James has been pressing against me on the dance floor is any indication, Wyatt is going to destroy the curve before it really ever takes off.
“Yes, Baya.” I say it mechanically because, for one, we’re speaking in code in front of my idiot ex and I secretly love it. “I think”—I nod my head violently toward said idiot—“would make a grand inclusion to the baker’s dozen.”
“Bake this”—Will pulls out his phone—“I’m about to make both your mouths water when I show you what I have in store for Tits and Twats.”
“Rags to Riches,” Baya corrects.
I can’t even.
“Whatever.” Will proceeds to regale us with talk of coding and the binary number system and something called Cobalt—blah, blah, blah.
All I can think about is Wyatt and those clear aqua eyes staring down at me as he impales me with his hot flesh and makes me his for the very first time. An entire litany of things I’d like to do to him twist through my mind. It’s pretty clear I’m long over the bonehead next to me and onto the boner awaiting me. See? Simply remove the nuisance of love from the equation and an adventure of sexual proportions is born. Wyatt has become my new favorite obsession. He clouds my thoughts from eyelids open until I fall asleep snuggling up with my favorite vibrator (who coincidentally happens to be named Wyatt).
Will waves his hand over my face. “Forecast calls for rain. This is all summer shit. Try to throw some seasonal stuff in, coats and crap. Maybe try working with vinyl,” he says as he collects his things and heads out the door.
Forecast calls for rain. A heavy sigh expels from me.
Wyatt comes to mind again.
Things are about to get very, very wet.
That’s for sure.
* * *
The next few days roll by in a dizzying blur. At work, Wyatt and I examine Will’s app which he promptly sent me right after class that day. Wyatt is unreasonably impressed with my ex’s technological talents which irritates me to no end, but he assures me utilizing Will’s mad tech skills to make money will only benefit Baya and me in the end. I suppose it’s true, once the semester is over William Adeline Richie will be nothing more than a bad stain on my memory, but Rags to Riches will live on. Note to self: Drop the next damn class that Will decides to crash. Also: Look into online classes.
On Friday, I don my new creation—a pieced suede coat that Annie helped me slice and dice just the day before. She actually assisted in designing this beauty. I was going for a straight edge at the opening, and she convinced me that oversized shearling lapels would be the way to go. Paired with my over-the-knee dark rum leather boots, it looks as if I’ve just stepped off a runway in Milan.