Page 42 of Girls Will Be Girls
“How did he know his name?” I bolt up, slightly terrified.
“Whose name?” Dylan asks.
“The rage fucker’s?” Frida says.
And that’s when it dawns on me that Lou is in fact my name too…
“Is his name, Lou?” Dylan says with far too much amusement in her voice.
“Lou.” Frida holds in a laugh. “Are you fucking a Lou?”
“Oh my god, Frida.” Dylan starts. “You know how you call her Lou Lou? What if they upgrade from a rage fuck to a couple?”
Frida continues. “Their couple name could be Lou Lou Lou.” She laughs.
“Or Lou Lou Lou Lou.” Dylan snorts.
“You done?” I try to intercede.
“What’s his real name?” Frida asks.
“Lou,” I answer.
Dylan swallows a gulp of her drink. “Yeah, but what’s it short for?”
“Nothing, his name’s Lou.”
I’m met with silence, a calm before the storm, as they both descend into ugly cackles. I believe calling them may have been a mistake. I shift onto my stomach, resting my face on my hand like I’m Lizzie McGuire using the landline on my bed in the ultimate teenage gab fest.
I lie silently and wait for them to come too. I push down the smile tugging at my lips at the sound of them laughing at my expense.
“So, why does the fucking have to be ragey and not just fucky?” Frida finally asks.
“Are you angry he stole your name?” Dylan titters.
“You guys have ruined any and all horny feelings I had, so thank you,” I say.
“Is he hot?” Frida barrels on.
I answer honestly. “Extremely.”
“Does he want to rage fuck you?” Dylan asks.
“He’s basically the human embodiment of a golden retriever puppy. I doubt he’s ever felt rage.”
“So he wants to normal fuck you?” Frida asks hopefully.
“I think so.” I contemplate tonight for a second. “Maybe. He says he wants to date me.”
Frida scoffs. “That’s code for fuck.”
“He had his chance.Believe me.”
“Spill,” Dylan says sternly. “Now.”
I take them through the whole story because I’m nothing if not thorough when it comes to spilling tea. From the coffee incident to the fake fiancé, from his fancy journalism job to him asking me out, and from being neighbors to once again being fake-engaged. By the time I’ve finished my dramatic retelling, I’m all wound up again.
Describing the way he pushed me up against the door, and the way his fingers grazed over my skin has turned the dial up in my body all the way. That mixed with frustration and rage, I’m burning up just thinking about him.
