ALLIE: What cha’ doing? On your date with the phone lover who picked you up yesterday here?
ME: I’m currently trimming my bush.
I laugh like I’m a fourteen-year-old boy at my text. Weirdly, my plant looks like the head of a penis. Am I that sex starved?
My phone buzzes again, and I groan when I see the name I gave Ethan on my screen. Against my better judgment, I read the text.
ASSHOLE: Funny. I pictured you as more of a “bare” girl than a trimmer.
I read that three times before I go from a fourteen-year-old boy to a twelve-year-old, mortified girl, and squeal while covering my face like that somehow shields me from my stupidity.
Did I really freaking send that to Ethan? Again? Why me?!
ME: That was NOT supposed to go to you, and I meant a literal bush. NOT my girl parts!
The next second, I get another text.
ALLIE: Huh? wth? Girl parts? Seriously? When did you turn five?
And I sent that to Allie instead of Ethan.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I groan to myself. Then I glare at my phone and add, “You’re an evil son of a bitch.”
The phone doesn’t defend itself. Obviously it knows I’m right.
I copy and paste the text, and check twice to make sure I’m sending it to Ethan, then resend the damn thing.
ASSHOLE: If you say so. Feel free to show me, since I don’t really believe you.
Just to prove I’m not some lunatic discussing my vagina-grooming, I snap a picture of the bush, and I send it to him. He messages back promptly.
ASSHOLE: Your bush looks like a dick. I have some extra jewelry if you want to pierce it. I can send you a visual if you’ve forgotten what it looks like.
I reply back, rolling my eyes as I tell him he’s a douche bag. Too late do I see autocorrect has once again fucked me over, and the word isn’t even a real word. Why does it create words?
ME: You’re a doodoo bag.
He’s texting before I can fix it.
ASSHOLE: Dafuq?
ME: I meant douchebag!!
ASSHOLE: Yeah, cause that’s better. The 1990’s said to high five you for that.
ME: I hate you.
ASSHOLE: Only because you want me, Bella. Only because you want me.
I don’t know whether to be impressed with his confidence or annoyed by his arrogance. Fortunately, I don’t have to think about it much longer, because Jeremy is knocking on my door.
I really hope he was just nervous last night and that tonight will be better, because I almost didn’t agree to a second date.
Opening the door, I force a smile. He glances at me from head-to-toe while staying on his phone—again.
“Yeah, just get the contracts sent over,” he tells whoever it is he’s talking to before waving his hand impatiently at me to hurry up.
He walks on out to his car, while I mutter a few curses and shut the door and lock it. When I reach the car, he barely lets me get in before he’s gassing it out of my driveway.