Page 3 of You Were Mine

“Is that what you call it?”

He shoves his shoulder against mine.

“Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just trying to keep your cock from destroying the environment. And what if you’re driving? Eighty dollars in gas to and from? Eighty dollars in fumes for the planet? Sorry that I don’t think your boner is worth destroying Planet Earth. Our precious celestial home…”

“Shut the hell up, already. Well, when you put itthatway—”

“How would you put it?”

“My pursuit of happiness is a Constitutional…”

“It’s in theDeclaration of Independence,” I say, “Not the Constitution. And I’m pretty sure that Thomas Jefferson wasn’t talking about getting laid when he wrote that.”

“So, you were there to personallyaskhim?You know, he might’ve been,” Logan replies.

“I swear to God, why do I hang with you?”

Logan laughs. “Because of my quick wit and incredibly good looks?” he asks.

“Because I look better by comparison,” I shoot back.

Logan gasps like I’ve caused irreparable harm to his fragile psyche. “Forshame,” he says.

“How wouldyouknow what shame is? You don’t have any.”

“I know that if I didn’t cook for you, you’d starve,” Logan replies.

“LikehellI would. I’d eat pizza and ramen noodles like everyone else around here,” I say.

“So, in other words, if I didn’t cook for you, you’d get scurvy and die of malnutrition. Good to know.”

“And if it weren’t for me, your underwear would be pink,” I say, “And God knows what else.”

Logan has somehow never mastered the art of separating his colors from his whites. It’s like a curse, actually. No matter how hard he tries, a red sock or some dark blue boxers inevitably fall into an otherwise white load. I’d think he was doing it on purpose, except Logan has the attention span of a squirrel with ADHD. Trust me, a gag like that ain’t in his wheelhouse.

“No, I’d pay someone to do my laundry,” Logan counters.

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and shake my head. “You can’t use money to solve all your problems, ‘Rockefeller’,” I say.

“And why not?”

“Because you’ll never learn crucial problem-solving skills,” I answer.

“I can pay someone else with crucial problem-solving skills.”

Why did I even ask?

Once we reach the parking lot, I give a cursory glance to see if I can spot the model, but I don’t see him. I justhaveto know where I’ve seen this guy.

I get into Logan’s flashy BMW. It’s gloss black, reflecting the setting sun. If there’s anything Logan loves more than Halloween, it’s his car. He’d die if it got so much as a scratch, which is why he always parks in the furthest space from the building. Both the driver’s and passenger’s seats are neat and clean, but it looks like a library and a party store fought for dominion of the back seat. Textbooks wage war against foam pumpkins and Styrofoam tombstones, and buried beneath plastic bags and books, there might also be a few lost tubes of paint crying out for salvation.

“Are you sure you don’t recognize that model fromanywhere?” I ask.

“No,” Logan says, starting the car, “And you realize you’re obsessing, right? Most people when they see someone they think they know from somewhere, let it go after five minutes.”

“Maybe,” I reply.

Logan, overly cautious, takes forever to back out. “You think he’s hot, don’t you?” he asks, driving out the parking lot.

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