Kiss or Miss

Chapter 1: The Night I Became a Meme (And Met the Tattoo Guy) Let me tell you something embarrassing. I am twenty two years old. I write romance novels for a living. And I have never, ever been kissed. Not once. Not a peck. Not a drunk "you're kinda cute" situation at a party. Not even a dare from a friend back in high school. My lips are like a haunted house. No one goes in. No one wants to. The only thing that's touched my mouth in the past three years is coffee, pizza, and my cat's tail when she sleeps on my face. I know. It's pathetic. You don't have to say it out loud. I've already said it to myself about a thousand times, usually at 3am when I can't sleep and my brain decides to replay every romantic failure I've ever had. The list is long. The list is sad. The list includes a guy in tenth grade who told me I was "cool like a sister." A guy in college who used me to cheat on his girlfriend and then denied we ever hung out. And a guy at a party last year who threw up on my shoes before I could even tell him my name. So when Ethan texted me "come to Tipsy Flamingo tonight ;)" I literally screamed into my couch cushion. My roommate Kira banged on the wall from her room. "Shut up! Some of us have to work in the morning!" "I got a text from Ethan!" "The poetry guy? He's weird." "He's not weird. He's sensitive." "Same thing." I ignored her. I had a mission. I wore the good b*a. The one without the weird stain. The one that actually fits and doesn't dig into my ribs. I curled my hair. Burned my ear with the curling iron. Cried for three minutes. Put on mascara. Cried again because the mascara smudged. Fixed it with a Q tip. Told myself I was hot. Looked in the mirror. Believed it for about five seconds. My cat, Princess Fluffybutt (Kira named her, not me), sat on the bathroom counter and watched me like I was a nature documentary. She's fat and gray and she judges everyone. She meowed. "You're judging me," I told her. She meowed again. "You're right. I am desperate." Another meow. "Shut up." I put on my best jeans. The ones without the hole in the knee. A black top that made me look like I had a shape. Boots with a little heel. Not too high. I didn't want to fall. Spoiler alert: I fell. The Tipsy Flamingo is a dive bar on the south side of town. It's the kind of place where the floor is sticky no matter what day you go. Even Monday morning. How is it sticky on a Monday morning? I don't know. Jerry the bartender has a tooth missing and calls everyone "kid." The lights are dim enough that you can't see the stains on the booth seats. The jukebox only plays country music and old rock from the eighties. The curly fries are the best thing on the menu because everything else tastes like freezer burn and regret. I walked in at like 9pm. The place was half full. Old guys at the corner table nursing their beers. A couple playing pool badly. A girl by herself scrolling on her phone. The usual. And Ethan. At the bar. Wearing a black turtleneck. Who wears a turtleneck to a dive bar? A poetry guy. That's who. He writes poems about storms and women's necks and posts them on i********: with black and white photos of himself looking sad. I'd been following him for six months. Liking his posts. Hoping he'd notice me. He noticed. He saw me. Waved. I waved back. I was smiling. I was feeling cute. I was thinking maybe this is it. Maybe tonight I finally get kissed. Maybe all the waiting and embarrassment and self pity was about to pay off. I ordered curly fries. Because I'm classy like that. And because I needed something to do with my hands. The fries came. A big red basket. Steam rising. Salt glistening. I took one. Ate it. Hot. Perfect. I took another. Then I turned to walk toward Ethan. And my heel found the broken tile. I didn't just trip. I launched. Like a human cannonball but less sexy. Arms out. Fries flying everywhere. The basket flipped. Curly fries spun through the air like tiny greasy angels. My mouth opened in a silent scream. Time slowed down. I saw one single fry spinning in slow motion. It caught the light. Golden. Beautiful. Then it landed on my forehead and stuck there like a tiny greasy crown. I hit the floor. Face first. Chin on the sticky ground. The impact knocked the air out of my lungs. I laid there for a second. Or a minute. I don't know. A curly fry was on my forehead. I could feel it. Grease dripping down my nose. Ethan looked down at me. He was holding a beer. His face was not concerned. Not amused. Just blank. Like he was watching a pigeon fall out of a tree. Did he help me up? No. Did he laugh? No. Did he say anything romantic or sweet or even slightly human? No. He said, "You good, bro?" Bro. Then he wiped his fingers on my sleeve and walked over to a girl in leather pants. She had heels that looked like weapons. She was laughing. He was laughing. They were laughing at me. I laid there on the floor. Fry on my head. Soul leaving my body. Some girl at the next table took a picture. I heard the click. Then another click. Then another. By the time I crawled to the bathroom, it was everywhere. Twitter. t****k. i********:. My face. The fry. The caption said "She wanted a boyfriend but got a curly fry concussion." Four million views. The comments were brutal. One said "She fell harder than my dad when he left for cigarettes." Another said "He said 'you good bro' and left. That's not a red flag. That's the whole communist parade." Another said "The fry on her forehead is the best part. Like a little crown of shame." Another said "I've never been kissed either. Now I'm scared to leave my house." I related to that last one. I sat in the bathroom stall. The big one at the end. Not because I'm disabled. Because I needed leg room for my emotional breakdown. The floor was wet. I didn't care. I sat there and scrolled and scrolled and watched my life become a joke. Then the bathroom door swung open. And he walked in. I knew who he was immediately. Zayn Lee. The guy who won the romance writing contest last year. The one I entered and lost. He won with a book called Spreadsheets and Seduction. About a woman who falls in love with a pivot table. I'm not joking. A pivot table. Like in Excel. And it was actually good. I hated him for it. He was tall. Six two maybe. Tattoos on both arms. Not full sleeves. Just scattered. A skull. A rose. Some words in a language I didn't recognize. He had a scar on his eyebrow. His hoodie said "I Poop In Peace" which is so stupid I almost respected it. He smelled like coffee and cinnamon. He saw me on the floor. Fry grease in my hair. Mascara running down my face. The good b*a completely wasted. He didn't laugh. He didn't take a picture. He crouched down. Eye level. "You okay, fry girl?" "No." "Good." He grinned. "Because I need you." He pulled out his phone. Showed me a tweet. HarperCollins. Fifty thousand dollar advance. Romantic comedy. Three months deadline. My heart did a little flip. "I can't win alone," he said. "My books are too cold. Yours are too innocent. You've never been kissed. That's not me being mean. It's just true." "It's still mean." "Maybe." He sat down next to me. On the bathroom floor. Cross legged like a kid at story time. "Here's the deal. You teach me how to write like a human. I teach you how to kiss someone without sounding like a robot." "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." "Probably." "Why would you help me?" He shrugged. "Winning alone is boring. And you're funny. Even covered in fries and shame." He pulled a crumpled napkin from his hoodie. Wrote something with a pen that said "Property of the Library." His handwriting was terrible. Jagged and messy. Like a spider had a seizure. He handed it to me. It said "Coffee every Tuesday. I teach mouth stuff. You teach feelings. Deal?" I laughed so hard I snorted. Actual snort. Then the bathroom door slammed open. Grandma Ruby. Seventy two years old. Sequined cowboy hat. Flip flops with socks. Holding a half eaten corndog. She pointed at Zayn. "You gonna kiss my granddaughter or just sit on a piss floor like a weirdo?" I don't know why. Maybe the concussion. Maybe the fry grease. I leaned in and kissed him. Quick. On the lips. He tasted like coffee. When I pulled back, his eyes were wide. "That was..." "Shut up." Grandma took a picture. Posted it. Two hundred thousand likes in an hour. Zayn stood up. Offered me his hand. "Same time Tuesday?" I took his hand. My heart did a little flip. Probably the fry grease. Probably. End of Chapter 1