Page 60 of Exes and O's

Trevor’s bedroom door is closed, and his light is off. I expected to hear the ecstasy-filled cries of Kat Von D, but it’s dead silent. There are no women’s shoes at the door. He hasn’t brought anyone home. While I know he doesn’t have to work tomorrow, I feel a tinge of guilt for potentially ruining his sleep.

Mitch hangs out in the living room for a few minutes, checking out my succulents (Louisa is my newest addition) while I dart into the bathroom to swish some last-minute mouthwash and ensure my armpits are stubble-free. On my way out, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is flirting dangerously close to raccoon chic. I resemble that meme of D.W. fromArthur, ominous purple circles shadowing her tired-AF eyes.

Mitch’s lips greet me the moment I exit the bathroom. He’s like a rabid dumpster dweller, pouncing out of nowhere. His kiss is so hard and fast, his front tooth stabs against my top lip.

I try to ignore the sting as he slides his sopping-wet tongue into my mouth. All I can taste is the bitterness of the vodka cran as he backs me into the wall. I’ve always wanted to be backed into a wall like in all the hottest sex scenes. But what those scenes leave out is the impact of your shoulders and tailbone hitting the drywall.

“Sorry.” He stifles a laugh as his tongue comes in for the kill.

I dart left, narrowly dodging it. “Everything good?”

“More than good. You?” His eyes are kind, concerned.

I nod away the doubt clouding my mind, kissing him back as we stumble into the darkness of my room.

We fall on the bed together in a strange mess of limbs. Instead of holding his weight up, he quite literally belly flops, knocking thewind out of me with his deadweight. I gasp for air like an awkward teenager losing my virginity all over again in my twin-size bed, my Beanie Baby collection bearing witness to the sweaty proceedings. Even an apologetic teenaged Cody Venner was ten times smoother than this guy.

“Do you have a condom?” Mitch whispers, tickling my neck with his moist breath.

My eyes snap open. As someone who doesn’t typically sleep with guys who aren’t my long-term boyfriend, I haven’t purchased condoms in years. “Oh. Damn. No, I don’t.”

“Shit. Me either,” he mutters, leaning back onto his knees. What guy doesn’t have a ten-year-old expired condom folded in his wallet? Really, Mitch?

Clearly he’s not exactly a pro at this random hookup thing, either. And that’s when I remember. I know someone who is. I leap out of bed like a trapeze artist. “Hold on. My roommate will have one.” I jog across the hall and knock.

Through the door, there’s a heavy sigh, followed by footsteps. When Trevor pulls the door open, he’s shirtless, his hair disheveled. “You okay?”

“Superb. Never better. Actually, I just need a condom,” I tell him with the casual air of a frat bro who freeloads condoms on the regular.

His face hardens, evidently irked I woke him up for this.

I cross my arms, refusing to let him guilt me after the three times his sex-capades woke me out of my peaceful slumber. “Would you prefer I have unprotected sex with a stranger and contract an STI?”

He sighs and stomps to his side table to grab two condoms.“Here.” He thrusts them into my hand. Then, without another word, he slams the door in my face.

I peer at the condoms and work down the lump in my throat. I’m doing this. I’m going to have sex with Mitch.

This is fine. No. This is great. Marvelous. Perfectly splendid.

Or is it?

My current stance (palms to knees, hyperventilating) tells me otherwise.

I remind myself why I’m so hell-bent on a one-night stand to begin with. I’m sexually frustrated. And more than that, I want to lose all inhibition and have casual sex, like everyone else my age seems to do without a care in the world. There’s nothing wrong with it morally. And yet, I can’t ignore the overwhelming urge to slam the brakes. Stat. Will sleeping with sloppy Mitch be any better than taking care of business all by myself? At this rate, probably not.

“Did you get them?” Mitch asks from the end of the bed.

“Yeah.” I hold them up like a sad carnival prize from the doorway, keeping my distance. “Mitch? I’m really sorry, but... I don’t think I can do this.”

His brows dip. “Oh, okay. Did I do anything to make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No. Definitely not. You’ve been great. I just don’t know if I’m cut out for one-night stands.”

He scratches the side of his head like he’s in deep thought. “I’m kind of thinking the same thing, if I’m being honest. I mean, you’re beautiful. I just...”

“It’s just not right.” My shoulders ease in relief.

We nod in mutual understanding, and I see him out. When I close the door and turn around, Trevor is sitting in the chair in the living room, one of my thriller books in hand.

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