Page 25 of Something Like Fate

“Tel, I think you just broke the bed,” I whisper, avoiding sudden movement.

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

Seven seconds.

At the tenth, we both descend into a fit of snorts, and Teller rolls onto his back next to me, chest heaving.

When I finally catch my breath, I toss him my phone to reveal the Putt on the Potty website.

“I was ordering you the Putt on the Potty for your birthday,” I say.

“Thanks,” he manages, wiping a tear from laughing so hard. “You always know exactly what I need.”

Ping.

His eyes flick to my screen. “Ack!” He tosses my phone back, blinking like my screen burned his retinas.

“What?” I lurch forward, only to find yet another dick pic from Mark B. This one is somehow even less flattering than the last. “Shoot. Sorry,” I say, quickly swiping it away.

“Can I ask who it belongs to?” he asks, half-amused, half-disconcerted.

“Mark B. A guy I was seeing.” I say it quickly in hopes that he’ll just move on. I don’t want to talk about Mark B., of all people.

“I’d ask if he was nice, but I can probably guess he isn’t.”Is he nice?That’s always Teller’s first question when I tell him about a date or someone of interest.

“Why wouldn’t he be nice? Because he sent a dick pic?” He nods. “You’re telling me you’ve never sent a dick pic?”

I expect him to make a show of disgust and say no, but he doesn’t. Not exactly. “I’ve never sent a dick pic ... unsolicited.”

“So you have sent one!” I shriek, ignoring the goose bumps erupting everywhere as my mind goesthere. Like really goes there. In a flash, I’m besieged with images of Teller—abs prominent, entirely nude.Get your mind out of the gutter, Lo.

“I was in a long-distance relationship for two years, okay?” he says, snapping me out of my deranged fantasy. From the neck up, he’s the color of Santa’s suit, and I can only assume I am too.

I tug at my collar, suddenly feeling sweaty. “Hey, no judgment over here. Just wondering why you’d assume he wasn’t nice.”

“First, you said youwereseeing each other. Past tense. Unless you’re still hooking up, sending that’s a little uncalled for. And second, the picture was taken in a car. That’s a serious road hazard.”

Only Teller would think about the safety of taking a dick pic.

I examine the photo again and spot the bottom of the steering wheel. He’s definitely driving. Sweet Christ. I don’t even want to know. “Okay, it’s weird. But in Mark B.’s defense, he’s actually a nice guy, if you can look past his tendency to send spontaneous dick pics.”

“So you’re not, um, requesting these dick pics?”

“No. It’s my own fault, really. He thinks I like them because I’ve been responding with the taco emoji. Or the sweat droplets.”

“The taco emoji?”

“I’m just trying to boost his confidence,” I manage through a hiccup. “And I feel kinda bad about how I ended things.” I go on to explain the whole fleeing-through-the-basement-window debacle.

Teller lets out a fit of laughter before asking, “Why did you end it?”

“I mean, we were never official or anything. We just didn’tlikeeach other enough. I never thought about him when we weren’t together. Every time we did hang out, I had this weird feeling. Like it wasn’t where I was supposed to be. And there weren’t any butterflies or any of that giddy stuff like in movies,” I explain, all too aware how naive that sounds.

“That’s fair. Though that kind of love is overrated, I think.”

“Did you ever have that kind of love with Sophie?” I dare to ask.

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