Page 9 of Puck Yes

What did you expect?You poured out your tale of woe to a stranger in the elevator, and he took pity on you.

I wince, realizing that Jackson was right. “I bet he’s one of those guys who always wants to save the day,” Jackson had said last night when I told him what happened.

“That’s not bad, right?”

“It’s perf for a wedding date. Bad for bed, though,” he’d said sagely. “Nice guys are never any good in the bedroom. Maybe you need two dates—a nice guy for public and a bad boy for private.”

“Who said I was taking him to bed?” I’d countered, but I kept wondering—is Hayes a nice guy or a bad boy? The whole time in the elevator, I couldn’t stop thinking about him naked. It was hard to look at him with the weight of all that cock knowledge on my shoulders. What if the wedding’s like that too? It only seems fair to lead with honesty.

Especially after what Xander did to me.

Then what Simone did.

And what my cheat of a father did to my mother years ago.

So, I dive bomb into the truth.

Ivy: So there’s something I have to tell you. About eggplants.

Hayes: This could go any number of ways.

He’s so dry he’s almost hard to read. But I speak deadpan, so I keep going.

Ivy: Do you know that bar across the street from our building?

Hayes: I haven’t been there, but I believe in its existence.

Ivy: Well, to make a long story short, my friend Jackson and I were there last night on the rooftop patio at sunset. We saw someone on the rooftop of our building taking off his clothes, and Jackson whipped out his binoculars, and I took them from him and maybe possibly checked you out while you watered your eggplants and strummed the air guitar. On your hose.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Then I add one more word.

Ivy: Sorry.

There’s no reply for a whole block as Roxy struts, tail high, head whipping back and forth at all the people she passes, both two-legged and four-legged. My neighbor is going to think I’m a very dirty girl. He’s probably going to ghost me. Or worse. Report me to…the rental board? Oh, shit. Is there some sort of San Francisco housing authority? Maybe he’ll register me as a balcony peeper.

But before I can double apologize, I spot the owner of Better With Pockets adjusting her chalkboard sidewalk sign in front of her store. It’s my favorite dress shop in the neighborhood, and Beatrix Martinez has built her business with an irreverent social media strategy.One I’d like to be a part of.

Her lip ring glints brightly in the morning sun, but her expression is unreadable as I tell her I struck out on my own and that I’d love for her to keep me in mind.

“Cool, email me some ideas,” she says, and I don’t know if that means she actually needs help or she’s just being nice, but I’ll take it either way.

“I will,” I say, hopeful she’ll actually read her email, then continue on my walk, returning to my phone, where a text blinks at me.

Hayes: Are you sorry though?

Oh.Oh.He’s not irked. He’s…intrigued. I can work with intrigued.

Ivy: Actually, I meant to say…Sorry, not sorry.

Hayes: Good answer. Also, this explains a lot.

My cheeks flame, even as my fingers fly with my question.

Ivy: What do you mean?

Hayes: I noticed last night that you tried really hard to look only at my face, Ivy.

Something about the way he writes my name out in text feels…commanding. Like an order. Maybe heisa bad boy in bed.

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