Chapter 5
1102 Words
Jennie
I wake up to a message from Dante Evans.
Which is not something I ever thought I’d say unless I hit my head, hallucinated, or fell into a coma where my brain built an alternate reality just to mess with me.
But it’s real. Sitting there on my cracked screen.
You still owe me cake, Chaos. Want to fix that?
I drop the phone.
Straight up fumble it like it’s covered in lava.
“OHMYGOD.”
Muffin, my cat, blinks at me from the foot of the bed like I’ve lost it.
“Don’t judge me, you nap-gremlin. The man from my literal DREAMS just texted me.”
Muffin gives me a judgmental, “Mauw…” while I reread the message three times.
Then a fourth for science.
He wants to see me again.
Why?
I mean, I’m not awful, but I’m also not a walking thirst trap. My idea of sexy is wearing my one good bra and remembering to shave both legs. I’m average. Small boobs. Stubborn hips. No money. Student loans. An unhealthy obsession with lemon bars. And yet… he called me Chaos like it was his favorite dessert.
Cue mental spiral.
My phone buzzes again.
Bestie to the rescue.
Talia: Are you awake? Your text yesterday made no sense!I need to know EVERYTHING! Did DANTE EVANS actually kiss you, or was it a cheek thing? I need DETAILS.
I FaceTime her before I can overthink it.
“Girl,” I whisper dramatically. “He texted me.”
Her eyes bulge. “SHUT. UP.”
“I almost did. Permanently. From heart failure.”
“What did he say?”
I read the message out loud.
Talia stares at me like I’m holding a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s pants.
“Jennie. That’s not just a flirty text. That’s code for foreplay.”
I hiss. “No it’s not! It’s just cake!”
“Oh honey.” She leans closer to the camera. “You’re the cake.”
My soul leaves my body. Then I flop back onto the bed and moan into my pillow.
Talia laughs. “You LIKE him!”
“I don’t! He’s just… pretty. And arrogant. And confusing. And he kissed me like I was his last meal… But also called me chaos like he wanted to adopt me or set me on fire. I don’t even know!”
Talia hums. “You gonna see him?”
I bite my lip.
I am.
I don’t know why since there’s no chance in hell he is my future husband, but I am.
I sit up. Grab my phone. Type out a reply.
Me: Sure. But just to be clear, Pretty Boy. I’m only in this for the sugar.
Send.
And then I freeze.
Pretty Boy.
Sugar???
My face turns hot. My soul actually detaches from my body and floats above me like. Girl, did I just sext an actor?!
I stare at the screen. At the words. At the read mark. Then I hyperventilate. Cry. Panic.
WHAT I WROTE SOUNDED WAY TOO FLIRTY! Like strip-me-with-a-fork-and-dip-me-in-frosting flirty.
“What did you say?” Talia asks.
I groan. “I said I was in it for the sugar! I also…I also called him Pretty Boy! You might as well shoot me!”
There’s a long pause…and then she squeals!
“You’re doomed! Oh my god, Jennie! You flirted with a movie star! How are you going to survive the date without going down in flames? Hah. You dug your own grave!”
I stop our call, but my bestie isn’t wrong. I dug a hole and now I might as well die.
That want and need grows stronger when Dante texts back.
Dante: I’m on my way. Try not to look too delicious. I only ordered one slice.
I scream into my blanket.
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!”
Muffin stretches like I haven’t just had a full body meltdown.
I pace my apartment. Twice. I try to read a book, but all I retain is the word “thrust” and I have to throw the entire paperback under my bed and never look at it again.
I check the mirror.
I check it again.
I reapply lip gloss, then panic that I look like I’m trying too hard and wipe it off. Then panic that I look like I’m not trying hard enough and reapply it again.
Time is moving slower than snails after rain. I keep checking the clock like it’s gaslighting me.
Twenty minutes to go.
Nineteen.
Seventeen.
At one point, I attempt to journal my feelings like a mature adult. But all I write is: WHY IS HE SO HOT?? followed by a series of aggressive hearts and a doodle of me fainting.
An hour later, I’ve tried on five outfits and cried once.
Nothing looks good. My hair looks like a sad broom. And my left boob is doing this thing where it isn’t filling up the entire bra while the other one does. Why aren’t they entirely symmetrical?!
I video call Talia again.
“This is a crisis.”
She looks like she’s just woken up from a nap, which is unfair because she still manages to be hot in her Deadpool T-shirt and high bun.
“Let me see,” she says.
I back up. Show her the third dress I tried. Pink. Flowy. A little flirty, but not slutty.
“You look adorable.”
“I look like a cupcake that got rejected from the bakery.”
“Exactly. You’re sweet and soft, and he wants to eat you.”
“TALIA.”
She just grins. “Wear it. Wear your hair down. Lip gloss, not lipstick. If he’s going to kiss you again, make it taste like frosting.”
“Oh my god.”
“You’re welcome.”
I hang up on her.
Then panic more.
I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to act around men like Dante Evans. The last guy I dated thought I was too opinionated because I suggested putting the toilet seat down in my own apartment.
Dante? He’s a walking fantasy with a jawline that could cut glass and arms that make me want to sign up for sins.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
This is happening.
He’s picking me up in twenty minutes.
For cake.
Which is totally casual.
Totally not a date.
I grab my bag. Apply the lip gloss.
And whisper to my reflection, “Sugar. Not seduction. Sugar. This is NOT a romantic date.”
My reflection doesn’t believe me.
Neither do I.
- Writer
