Hanging with my roomies in our cozy West Village apartment, watching the first December snowfall with no chance of being forced to listen to a man talk about fishing or watch him pick his nose in front of me?
It sounds like a little slice of heaven.
In the narrow kitchen/living room that’s the heart of our four-bedroom apartment, Evie is splashing paint on a canvas in the corner, Jess sits on the couch tapping furiously on her laptop, and Cameron is in the kitchen whipping up something in the cast iron skillet that smells delightful.
Letting my nose lead the way, I drift over to the island and perch on a stool, inhaling with a happy sigh. “Is that work work or feeding-the-roomies work?” I ask.
Cameron is a sous chef at Crave, one of the swankiest restaurants in the city, and is always working on new recipes to impress his grouchy and as-yet-unimpressible boss.
“Roomies work. The restaurant is closed for the night,” Cameron says, his blue eyes flashing as he glances up at me through the smoke rising from the skillet. “I’m making a cassoulet with winter veggies and homemade sausage. Guaranteed to get your microbiome in fighting shape before the indulgence of the holidays.”
I hum appreciatively. “Yum. You’re an angel of mercy. And I’m starving.”
“Me, too,” Jess says, sighing as she continues to tap away. “But this code for level fifteen is diseased. I don’t get to eat until I fix it.”
“I thought we talked about this,” Evie pipes up from her corner. “Punishing yourself isn’t a solid productivity strategy.”
“I’m not punishing myself,” Jess says.
Evie props her fist on her hip and shoots Jess a hard look. “You haven’t peed in three hours.”
“It’s weird that you’re keeping track of how often I pee,” Jess mutters.
“It’s weird that you’re holding your pee. And also medieval and possibly dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous, and I don’t get to pee until I fix this section,” Jess grumbles, sinking lower on the couch. “And yes, I know that’s crazy, but I need crazy energy right now. I’m the lead on this game design. If I don’t have the next batch of code ready first thing Monday morning, I’m screwed.”
“Speaking of screwed,” Cameron says, “I met someone last night, a bartender at my friend Erick’s club. She’s cute, smart, makes a killer maple martini, and she asked me to come over to her place after dinner tonight. So…fingers crossed.”
“Amazing!” Evie calls out, clapping her hands with excitement. “You’re going to be the second graduate of V-Card No More University! I just know it.”
Jess insists her fingers are crossed for him and I shoot him a thumbs-up, tempted for the ten thousandth time to confess that I’m a virgin, too.
I don’t know why I didn’t correct Evie years ago when she assumed my high school ex, Chris, and I were banging like bunnies. I just wanted so badly to be the worldly, knowledgeable young woman I pretended to be at eighteen, even though at that point I’d never been out of New Jersey except for occasional trips to New York City for baseball games in the summer and holiday shopping in the winter.
I should have come clean in September, when Ian—NHL superstar, Derrick’s best friend, and now, Evie’s sexy and devoted boyfriend—agreed to help the rest of my roomies up their V-Card losing game.
But for some reason…I didn’t.
Some reason…
Right. You know exactly why you kept your trap shut.
You don’t want Derrick to know that you’re still every bit as virginal as the night you begged him to be your first back in high school.
My jaw clenches and memories rise in my mind, memories of that night in the woods, when a combo of too much cheap beer and too much time spent watching the bonfire flicker seductively under the trees convinced me it would be a good idea to throw myself at Derrick. But I shut them down fast, stuffing the mortifying recollections back into the dark corner of my consciousness where they belong.
I refuse to think about how completely then twenty-six-year-old Derrick shut me down. He said it was because I was too young, too inexperienced, too naïve, yada yada, but I know better. He was repulsed by my lack of game and sub-par kissing skills.
Or so I assumed, until that confusing-as-fuck kiss last fall. It was right after he’d saved me from being crushed by two assholes at a local dive bar, and we were in the middle of a seriously heated conversation at my place when it happened. Likely, adrenaline was to blame for that flash of chemistry and the hungry look in his eyes after.
If we kissed again, it would probably be awful, and I’m certainly in no rush to find out if he still tastes like fresh mountain spring water and rampant manliness.
Liar, liar, panties on fire…