His next comment is biting.

Rett: I said fuck. You.

Shit. What if he thinks I’m insulting the way he looks? I mean, I’m kind of a bitch sometimes, but I’m not purposely trying to be mean.

Me: I didn’t mean it as an insult.

Rett: Don’t care. Whoever you are, take a fucking hike.

Me: Maybe I’m beginning to like boys that play hard to get.

Rett: Jesus Christ, take a goddamn hint.

Me: See now, here’s the thing: if you really wanted me to go away, you would have stopped responding by now, or blocked my number.

I know I’m right about one thing: he’s interested enough to keep texting me.

Several long seconds pass and he still hasn’t responded. My cousin watches intently from across the cafeteria table, arms folded, expression serene, Magic Eight Ball in the center of the table like she’s a fortune-teller. Weirdo.

Impatient, I type out: Hey Rett, what kind of text messages have you been getting?

Rett: Use your imagination.

Me: Naughty ones?

Rett: Yes.

Me: LOTS of naughty ones?

Seriously, why the hell am I flirting with this guy?

Rett: Yes. Obviously.

Me: Like what—give me an example.

Rett: No.

Me: Oh come on now, don’t be a poo.

Rett: Do you ever take no for an answer?

Me: Rarely.

Rett: You’re really annoying.

Me: Maybe, but am I as bad as the other girls texting you right now?

Rett: Yes, actually.

Me: WHAT?! You liar, I am not!

Rett: Yes, you really are. I have ten fucking chicks texting me at the same time right now and I can’t shake any of you.

Me: Ever heard of that little thing called blocking someone?

Rett: A smartass, too, I see.

Me: A bit, and I’m impressed by your use of the correct TOO, and that you have your commas in the right spots…

Me: But seriously, you should be blocking these people. Have you?

Rett: No.

Me: Well you should—the last thing you need is a ton of jock chasers messaging you.

Rett: How do you know I’m a jock?

Me: I don’t, just saying, in case you are.

Rett: If I were blocking people, you’d be the first to go. You’re really annoying.

Me: You said that already. Besides, how am I being annoying?!

Rett: Are you kissing me right now?

Me: LOL kissing. What a fun idea, Rett.

Rett: Dammit. You know what I meant—you’re being annoying. You keep asking stupid questions and won’t leave me alone. For the record, my name is spelled RHETT. With an H.

Me: Then why is it spelled RETT on the posters?

I’m not sure why I care to have it correct, but I add the H to his name in my phone.

Rhett: My roommates are fucking idiots, that’s why.

Me: Sounds like it. Are they the ones who put up the green flyers?

Rhett: Obviously. Do you honestly think I would have done that shit myself?

Me: Maybe. Some guys will do anything for sex.

Rhett: Well, not me. I would never do that. I’m in a drought, not desperate.

Me: Ahh, so you DO need to get laid…

Rhett: You’re really crossing a line, do you realize that?

Me: Yes, but I’m protected by a cloak of anonymity

Rhett: What’s your name?

Me: Can’t tell you—cloak of anonymity, remember?

Rhett: Fine, play games. It was nice knowing you.

I bite down on my bottom lip and give Alexandra a side-glance.

“Now what’s happening? Tell me,” she urges. “You look like you swallowed a dirty, smelly cock.”

“He wants to know my name.”

“So? What’s the big deal?”

“Haven’t you heard of stranger danger?”

Alex shrugs her petite shoulders. “Make one up.”

“Good idea. Didn’t think of that.”

“You’ve never given a guy a fake name? Shit, I do it almost every weekend.”

My name is…

Pausing, I feel a smidge guilty. This guy has been treated like absolute shit by his friends, and now I’m about to lie to him—again.

“Why are you hesitating?” Alex asks. “Throw it out there. Give him a name.”

Grinning, I type in A-l-e-x, hit send.

Me: My name is Alex.

Rhett: Well Alex, c’était amusant, but I have shit to do

I sit up straighter. What the hell was that?

French?

Me: What did that mean??? Cetait amusant or whatever.

Rhett: Google it.

I sit there, staring at the words written in French, and shiver a little. Press down on the words to highlight them, copy and paste them into a translation search, hit enter: Well Alex, it’s been fun, but I have shit to do.

I stare at that sentence.

French.

The guy speaks French.

Rhett Whateverhislastnameis speaks French.

That is…

Really kind of sexy, if I’m being honest.

I fidget in my chair, biting down the smile caused by learning this new bit of fascinating information.

“Why are you smiling? What’s he saying now?”

I lift my head to meet her curious, calculating gaze. “He told me to fuck off and leave him alone.”

“Jeez, what a dick.”

“Yeah.”

But my wheels are spinning now.

At an alarmingly rapid pace.

Rhett

“Do you assholes have any fuckin’ clue how many girls have been texting me? I could punch y’all in the nuts.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That wasn’t me thanking you.”

“But you should.” Eric stretches his arm across his body, stretching his shoulder muscles. “Tell us how many chicks are after your tiny cock right now.”

I plop down in a chair, tossing the cell onto the kitchen table. “My phone is blowin’ up. It was funny the first ten times, but now it’s getting old. They’re all the same.”

Eric pulls a sad face. “Poor poor baby, no one feels sorry for you.”

“You wouldn’t believe how perverted girls are. I feel violated in so many ways and need a hot shower.”

Now he groans. “Only you would feel violated by women hitting on you.”

“Hitting on me? They’re propositionin’ me—huge difference. I’ve gotten more offers for blow jobs in the past twenty-four hours than I can count. It’s disturbin’.”

“No, what’s disturbing is the fact that you’re bitching about it. You don’t like blow jobs?”

“That’s not what I fucking meant.”

“Seriously man, how long has it been since your shriveled-up dick has been in someone’s mouth?”

“Screw you, Johnson.”

The truth is, it’s been a few years. The last and only time I got laid was high school: Beth Ripley, a hometown girl who hung out with our crowd and wasn’t picky about who she dated. Admittedly, she was kind of easy. Part of the agriculture club, I remember sneaking off with her during a house party, remember her fondling my dick through my jeans before sticking her hand down my boxers.

Beth was aggressive, producing a condom before I could think twice about having sex with her. Verdict: it wasn’t memorable, but at least we liked each other. I came within minutes, not long after rolling the condom on.

I had a shit-ton of friends back home in Louisiana, male and female, was the two-time state wrestling champion, highly medaled, and All-American.

College is a different story. Girls want to date athletes who are pro-bound, who come with big egos and enthusiastic groupies. The quarterbacks. Team captains. Basketball players with NBA point guard potential. Fraternity guys. Preppy assholes.

Even nerds have better on campus luck than I do.

Adding to it, the guys on this fucking team have been cold-shouldering me, slow to open their tightknit circle. I’m not counting my roommates, who are outcasts themselves. Eric Johnson has the shittiest win record on the team, and Gunderson is proving to be the biggest fuckstick on planet Earth.

Regardless, pretty girls chase after these two. I regard them now from across the table, both moderately good-looking in their own way. Eric has this oddball sense of humor and pervy mannerisms that girls think are funny, and Gunderson is just an idiot.