Page 8 of Set on You

Our girls’ night turned into a slumber party after Mel’s nineteen-year-old brother insisted on hosting a raging keg party at her apartment. I quiver at the thought of college students staining her crisp white couch, a staple in most of her Instagram photos.

Unlike Mel’s place, my apartment isn’t white and modern. It’s a converted firehouse, clad with exposed redbrick walls and vibrant, boldly patterned furniture, predominantly refurbished by Mom and me. Repainting and reupholstering antique pieces became an obsession of ours during the summer before I graduated from college. To this day, I still scour yard sales, flea markets, and home décor stores, hunting for items I definitely don’t need.

The best thing about my apartment is the literal firepole,extending from the open loft that doubles as Tara’s room down to the spacious living area. With my coffee table pushed against the television stand, we’ve managed to cram an entire queen-size air mattress in here.

We’re barely paying attention to the movie, despite our love for Lara Jean and Peter Kavinsky. Instead, we’re highly distracted by food, wine, and conversation. I wasn’t sure how Mel would gel with my sister, given her up-front, boss bitch personality and Tara’s tenderhearted, sensitive nature. But they seem to be getting along like a house on fire. Things start off with group brainstorming for my self-love campaign, but after a few glasses of wine and randomaww-ing at Peter’s dopey adorableness, the conversation shifts.

“Did you have any more interactions with Squat Rack Thief after I left today?” Mel asks. She pulls her thick hair into a perfectly sleek high ponytail. I envy girls like her who can put their hair back so effortlessly, without a million baby hairs sticking up on end. When I attempt it, I resemble a juvenile orangutan with bedhead, unless I hairspray my flyaways down.

Tara groans. “Is she still complaining about this guy?” I’d told her about the initial squat rack thievery, and she called me “petty,” which is ironic. She’s the girl who spitefully planned her now-canceled wedding for August, the month her former mother-in-law-to-be was planning a trip to Iceland.

“They have this sexual tension thing going on,” Mel explains.

“Not true.” I wrangle two broken Pringles from the can.

Mel rolls her eyes dismissively. “You guys full-out stare at each other from across the gym.”

“Hate-stare.And I’m ignoring him from here on out.”

“Oh, come on. He seems like a really nice guy. He’s alwaysholding doors for people. The other day I saw him help that man who looks like Dr. Phil with his deadlift form.”

I sigh, reaching to tuck the protruding tag into the back of Tara’s T-shirt. “Okay, but why should he get a gold star for being a half-decent person? My standards aren’tthatlow.”

Tara pulls her braid over her bony shoulder and examines her split ends. “I need to see a picture of this guy before I can make any judgments.”

If only I didn’t have a mental picture of him and his smug smirk permanently etched into my memory. “You’re out of luck. I don’t even know his name.” I conveniently omit the fact that I did ask him, and he walked away from me. Truthfully, it stung a bit, like the dull ache of a tiny papercut you desperately refrain from whining about every time you wash your hands.

Mel sits upright to sip her wine. “He’s hot. Like, really hot. Super tall. Muscles for days. Lifts heavy, which means he has a lot of endurance...” she adds, suggestively waggling her brows.

Tara nods appreciatively while painting her toenails a hideous plum color. “Why aren’t you hopping on his bandwagon?”

“This so-calledsexual tensionis a myth. We’re nemeses, if anything.”

Tara clasps her chest, nearly dripping nail polish on my carpet. “Seth and I didn’t like each other at first either,” she starts, her expression darkening as she turns to Mel to explain. “Seth was my fiancé. We met at the hospital. I proposed to him... but we called off the wedding a couple months ago.”

Her ex-fiancé is the reason she’s been occupying my loft/den. Seven months before their elaborate one-hundred-fifty-person wedding at the Sheraton, Seth broke things off out of nowhere.

Tara showed up at my door at two in the morning in her pajamas with only a suitcase full of books, in desperate need of junk food and a place to stay. One night swiftly turned into two months, with no sign of her leaving.

Given her fragile state, which involved sobbing and listening to Taylor Swift on repeat, I’ve been reluctant to suggest she move out. Only in the past few weeks has she resumed wearing actual pants and filling in her eyebrows. Mom and I suspect she’ll be back on the dating scene soon. Taraloveslove, preferring Valentine’s Day to Christmas.

“Any plans to start dating again soon? Even just casually?” I ask.

Tara shivers as she crunches another Pringle. “I don’t do casual. If I don’t even know a dude’s middle name, I’m not about to touch their penis.”

Mel cringes. “The dating world is terrifying. I’ve seen the specimens on the market.”

“I’d rather pluck my pubes out one by one than resort to online dating. Tinder looks like a barren wasteland,” Tara adds, eyeing me to confirm. “You’ve been Neil-free for what, a few months now?”

My stomach clenches at the mere mention of Neil’s name. “Yup.”

Mel shifts onto her stomach, propping her chin up with her hands. “What happened with this Neil guy?”

“He’s my ex.” I shoot Tara a warning glance. The last thing I want to do is muddy our night with talk of Neil. He never fails to dull my mood.

“He’s like the Justin Bieber to her Selena Gomez,” Tara tells Mel, as if that explains the entire dynamic between Neil and me.“Except he’s a greasy failed musician who thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind. Crystal’s his chronic second choice when things go south with his ex.”

I shrug when Mel looks at me. Tara’s depiction is fully accurate. Neil and I met at a Halloween party. I’d been coerced by a college friend to go out at the last minute. I didn’t have a costume, so I haphazardly grabbed a random flower crown, threw on some iridescent makeup, and went as a Snapchat filter. Neil was a monk. I asked him if he was celibate, and he slapped the wall, wheezing with laughter, before sinking a beer pong point. That probably should have been my first clue.

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