The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

There he is. The love of my life.

     Right there on the television screen.

     He's the star basketball player with shaggy brown hair, tan skin, and a secret passion for singing musical theater.

     He's the over six feet tall, chocolate skinned, muscles on muscles football player who's a terrifying stone statue on the outside, but a soft cuddly teddy bear on the inside.

     He's the quiet kid that sits in the back of the class who wears all black and sketches the surreal.

     He's the boy next door who's constantly pushing up his glasses and has a brown leather journal filled with poetry.

     He's the class clown whose plaid shirt is always too baggy, black high tops are always untied, and the most crooked smile.

     He's even the tall, brooding man with larger than life sideburns, a fitted coat, and a bow tie, who always gives you irritating curt replies but somehow, someway always locks eyes with you across the ballroom.

     I don't have a type.

     I fell for them all.

     I love them all.

     Which is why I hate them all.

     For making me fall for them.

     For making me desire the simplest kind of affection, holding hands and pinky promises, staring contests and forehead kisses, fingers that tease and tickle, but arms that ground you when wrapped from behind, and late night snacks turned deep conversations until eyelids get too heavy and drift to sleep.

     For making me believe in the most unrealistic kind of love.

     For making me crave love.

     For making me yearn for someone somewhere to love me.

     "That's enough," my sister says, aggressively swiping at the few traitor tears that trickle out of her eyes. "I'm too hormonal for this sh*t." She snatches the remote off the coffee table before turning her red cheeks to face me. "Horror movie?"

     "Horror movie." I nod with a laugh.

****

My phone pings. I hear it from where I hid it underneath my pillow. It only reminds me that I'm no longer home on Spring Break, chilling on the couch watching movies with my sister, but instead back caged inside the dull white cement walls of my dorm room. It's my fault for forgetting to put my phone on silent, yet I'm also thankful because my eyes are starting to burn twenty pages into my reading assignment, and my teeth are close to making my thumbnail nonexistent.

     Hey, wanna come over? Jack's signature text.

     I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. I should be focused on finishing this assignment. I should be focusing on studying for the last of my midterms and preparing for the last six weeks of the semester.

     But my fingers close my laptop and push it off my lap. My legs stand up and walk into the small bathroom beside the door that conjoins the quad. My hands brush my teeth and hair. My arms fling my hair up into a ponytail before my feet carry me back into my room. My fingers latch around some deodorant, perfume, my cell phone, my cross body bag, and my black sweatshirt before reaching for my sneakers.

     It's like I have no control over my body the same way I have no control of Jack's lips as they curve around his pen when he cracks open the door to his apartment. He lazily pulls it back and stretches his arm out, gesturing for me to come inside, as if there is a grand ball in his living room instead of a black leather couch.