The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

"Nasty ass—"

     The juicer cuts off the rest of Taryne's sentence as I push the celery down into the blades. Once all the green liquid has been oozed into the liquid holder, I begin breaking up more celery stalks with my hands.

     "How do you drink that? Scratch that, why do you drink that?"

     I continue to load the celery inside the juicer and press it down as an answer to her question. Once I'm done, I swirl the celery juice around in my cup.

     "It makes me feel better about myself." I shrug before chugging it back. These are my kind of shots, but I'd be lying if I said the taste often didn't make you just as queasy.

     Taryne tosses a long chunk of dark braids over her shoulder like it's nothing, but I know just how heavy they really are because I had to help wash puke off them once when she was drunk. "You could just get laid."

     I almost spit all over the white lament countertop but manage to choke it down.

     Taryne only cackles like an evil Disney villain as she clicks her dark blue acrylic nails against the small kitchen table. "Or workout or something. I don't know. Anything but that"—she gags—"green gunk."

     I down the last of the "green gunk" and then go about scraping and cleaning the juicer. Taryne's nails go clicking away again, only softer, before her phone lands back on the wooden table with a thud.

     "Real talk, when was the last time you got laid?"

     I bang the spoon I'm using against the edge of the garbage can under the sink before straightening back up with a shrug. "I haven't been in the mood."

     She huffs. "You mean you've been in a mood?"

     I throw her a glare over my shoulder but that only makes her cackle again.

     "I gotta get to class." Her chair scrapes against the floor as she tosses her grey tote bag over her shoulder. "Later biatch." She slaps my pajama clad butt before running towards the door.

     I throw her a peace sign, but quickly drop my pointer finger so it turns into a curse, but we both silently laugh as the common room door to our quad suite closes behind her.

****

"So that, sweetheart, is why I'm a world champ."

     My brows furrow. "Because of hot dogs?"

     The guy mirrors my expression. "No, wings." His elbow slips off the bar he's leaning against. "Buffalo wings."

     "Oh," I drag out the word. I even throw in a few slow nods, but the guy's eyes continue to drift to my buns. Both buns in the top and bottom ovens of my body, like he has been the last three minutes. That's why I thought maybe he was a champion hot dog eater instead of buffalo wings. But I guess hot dogs aren't buns. And wings aren't hot dogs. And the girl over buffalo wing eating champion's shoulder, in the dark space under the stairs, is standing on shaky legs.

     Her laughter is loud. Her smile is bright. But she's close to cracking her ankles in half with her heels. And the three guys nodding along to her "buffalo wing eating champ" kind of story are also checking out her buns in both ovens.

     "Hey there, stranger."

     I whirl around to face a familiar smile, but a plaid shirt has replaced the long sleeve and quirked eyebrows are quick to replace quirked lips. It starts with a J. J, J, J—