Hookup

“That explains how he could afford all the roses.” I can’t remember the last time I dated someone who was financially solvent enough to purchase a dozen roses, let alone almost a thousand apology flowers. Not that Max and I are dating. Or hooking up. Or even remotely interested in each other. Although I do appreciate the fact that he did what he promised to do and took my dirty dancing video down. Madd had definitely set the bar low in the promise-keeping department.

“Do you want me to cut Madd’s balls off? Or send Dev to perform the amputation?” Lola grins, clearly enjoying her mental revenge fantasy.

Frankly, it appeals.

“That would be a career-limiting move,” I say finally. “I think I’m going to have to take the high road here and avoid a recreational stay in San Quentin. I’m holding out for the round-the-world tour.”

“Madd’s a dick.” Lola waves the nail brush for emphasis. “I never liked him. Next time, you should listen to me.”

“Duly noted. Walking away from a long-term relationship sucks. Madd and I were a couple and I invested time in us. I thought I knew him.”

Does that sound plaintive? Yes, it does. I make a note to kick myself in the butt.

Lola’s already shaking her head. “How many times have you gone out with a guy just for fun?”

“We had fun,” I protest.

“You go from zero to sixty,” Lola says. “You move him in and then it’s all future plans and serious talks because everything has to be a milestone and a step forward and special.”

“Lola.”

She leans her head against my shoulder. “You need to slow down, Maple. You don’t think about what’s happening right now because you’re so busy planning for a future that never arrives.”

“The future never arrives because I pick shitty men,” I say.

“You don’t know them, Maple. You just fantasize them into being right. I think you need to take a break.”

“From life? From sex? Or just the entire male gender?”

Lola sits up and slaps my shoulder. “Just have fun the next time you go out with someone. Use him for sex. Don’t go plunging into another long-term relationship five minutes after meeting someone.”

I make a face, willing someone to knock on the door or a telemarketer to call. Now would even be a good time for the upstairs neighbor to do the galumphing walkabout she usually saves for 3 a.m. “No more relationships. Just fun. And business. I’m still trying to get offered that contract from the Live Your Best Life people.”

I’m not ashamed to beg. Please, please, please pick me to be the face of your yearlong campaign because there is nothing I’d love more than to spend twelve months touring the world on your dime and shooting fabulous, yoga-and-dance-related content. Can you imagine what that would be like? Jet-setting from one tropical island to the next? They just fired the influencer who was the social media face of their campaign for drunken scooter driving in Thailand, so they need to find someone fast.

My phone pings, alerting me that dinner has arrived. Saved! I lever myself off the bed and walk to the door on my heels because it would be a shame to spoil Lola’s handiwork. I haven’t had pretty toenails in years—it’s one of the downsides to being a dancer. Nightly ice baths, gauze, blisters—none of those scream “pedicure.” Even now that I’m no longer dancing professionally, my feet are still tough and I love them.

When the intercom buzzes, I let in the delivery guy and carefully walk over to the door on my heels to retrieve our dinner.

Lola frowns at me. No, at my feet. “How do you do that?”

I look down automatically, but those are the same feet she was painting seconds ago, albeit slightly dustier. I need to up my housekeeping game. “Do what?”

“Walk so gracefully,” she says. “It’s not fair.”

“Years of practice.” I dig into the bag and pass her a set of wood chopsticks. While anybody can dance, ballet requires a commitment. In relationship terms, it’s a monogamous, twenty-five-year marriage rather than a fun hookup. And while I think I like my new life, it feels strange not to be spending sixty-plus hours a week dancing. “How are things with Dev?”

She grins. “He’s amazing.”

“Out of bed, too, I hope?” I arrange my food on the table and snap a picture then ten more because the lighting’s not quite right. #cheatnight #notsohealthy #betterthansex. Which, I discover when I dig into the first carton, isn’t an exaggeration at all. Mmm. Chow mein with those bright red chunks of pork.

Lola launches into a Dev story, something about a romantic weekend up in Napa. I think there were supposed to be wineries and maybe a romantic picnic surrounded by grapevines, but Lola’s story meanders from a really cool-sounding lunch in a restaurant that even I’ve heard of to a roadside pit stop (kissing) to finding a stream surrounded by wildflowers (where far more than kissing happened).

Her face glows when she talks about Dev. She met him by crash-landing in his lap at a networking event, and then followed the introduction up by hiring him as her new summer intern. Of course, it turned out he’d really come to her office to find out why she was illegally using his software (a completely innocent mistake on her part) and then they’d had hate-sex before agreeing to mutually use each other for orgasms. Or so Lola tells it.

Because there’s that glow that says their relationship is far more than crazy hot sex in some pretty kinky places. They’re happy together rather than angry and I think they may be working their way toward that long-term monogamous thing sooner rather than later. Like picking-out-a-puppy-together territory or possibly even a permanent move to the Kingdom of Happily-Ever-After. I’ve heard they have engagement rings and killer ceremonies there. Lola’s Dev stories are pretty freaking amazing, but I hope he realizes just how lucky he is. Lola may not have a billion dollars, but she’s worth the world to me and I’ll kill him if he can’t see that.

The Kinkster app on my phone pings and I can’t stop myself from giving the screen a quick glance. “Max owes me a rose—I have another hookup request.”

And eww. This guy also sent a picture and my eyeballs are burning. There are things you can’t unsee, no matter how small the phone screen.

Lola grabs a carton of kung pao shrimp and digs in. “I thought you deleted that app.”

I shrug. “Just keeping track of my fans.”

At first, I kept the app on my phone to make sure Madd hadn’t uploaded anything else. Then, I kept it just because. Just because I’m curious. Just because the kink other people get up to is amazing. Just because it reminds me of Max and then I can’t focus, imagining the way his mouth curled into a grin and his legs brushed mine. Maybe just because part of me wonders if he really deleted all the copies of that video—or if he’s still watching me.

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