You're It

by Cleo White

IN TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS of extremely questionable decision-making, entering this bathroom may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

She’d peeked into the bathroom too and decided she could wait to release her three sips of water in the wild. Lucky bitch.

desiccated hotdog.

I know emotional quicksand when I see it, and I don’t have time for that kind of self-sabotage right now.

I’m not sure where to look first. At the giant, crusty poop jutting triumphantly from a few inches of murky water, at the toilet paper hanging over the rim, or the dirty plunger stuck to the ceiling. I settle on gazing, in muted disbelief and horror, at the words graffitied on the wall above the whole shit show.

Someone is making a weird, hysterical laughing noise now, but it isn’t coming from either of the other women I’m standing with. It’s only after I look around wildly, searching for the source, that I realize it’s me.

Not just mine, though. Nope. And it’s saying a lot that in a morning full of unpleasant surprises, finding out who owns the other half of Galactic Guild is worse than even Caleb’s caca.

The fact I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon, holding a sledgehammer and staring at the basement door, is obviously a sign that the last piece has finally crumbled to dust.

Unfortunately, knowing something objectively isn’t enough to stop it from bothering me. For weeks, The Smell has felt as real as I am. It crawled beneath my skin, buried into my subconscious, and all attempts to resist ended the same way: with me staring at that door, furious with myself.

Something lodges in my throat as she pulls it open, bracing her hands on the doorframe so she can lean forward, giving the space a little sniff. Her eyelids flutter. “It’s nice.” My fists tighten in my pockets, stretching the irritated skin. “Nice?” She nods, a pretty, pink flush painting her cheeks as she closes the door and turns back to face me, her expression guarded. “Yes. I like it.” Oh. A dark and unfamiliar feeling is rising inside me, one I’m positive I’ve never experienced before and wouldn’t be able to name if my life depended on it.

“It’s Savvy Laurence versus Caleb’s caca, round two.” She drops her voice, adopting the theatrical drawl of a wrestling announcer. “Who will come out on top and claim the bathroom domination belt? Only one way to find out, folks! Stick around for when they go head-to-head in the stall!”

“I’ve been comfortable for a long time, Savvy, and it hasn’t made me happy,”

“It’s good for the plot, Dar,”

Unfortunately, in my case, that time is bound to come sooner rather than later. Also, given twenty-seven years of experience in living with myself, I know those mistakes won’t be so cute.

Normally, I don’t care. Really. I’ve made my peace with being an idiot. Unfortunately, I’m a proud idiot. A proud idiot who is now spending hours alone with the one person whom I don’t want privy to that deeply unfortunate quality, because Darwin keeps showing up.

Regrettably for me, impulsive may as well be my middle name. I’ve tried to change, tried to curb my behavior. All goes well until I get this great idea, which turns out to be not such a great idea, and my life is fucked up once again.

It’s why I’m currently scrambling to hide a giant game-show wheel before Darwin gets to Galactic Guild.

Hey, maybe I can say I found it and blame it on Stone. That’s not horrible, is it? Blaming your poor decisions on your dead dad so his best friend, whom you once threw yourself at and he brutally rejected you, doesn’t find out he was right about what a mess you are.

He was my friend—my only friend—and I’m panting after his little girl when he’s barely cold in the ground.

Marley writes a ton of fan fiction for them, but they’re not exactly family friendly”—he drops his voice conspiratorially—“if you know what I mean.”

“Okay. We need to hire them. If only for the entertainment value.”

(also the star in some very graphic dreams which I’m pretending didn’t happen).

The man is wearing a black T-shirt today—a tight black t-shirt—and it’s all I can do to stop myself from cursing out the universe for the second time in one morning. God actual fucking damnit. Even seventy-year-old Mrs. Paul from next door has stopped sweeping pine needles off her walkway to check him out.

“If you do that, I’m going to pee in your gas tank, you condescending butthole.” “It’s electric. There isn’t a gas tank to pee in. Also… okay, how would you even do that?”

“I’m not a sore loser, I’m just convinced you’re cheating and can’t work out how.” “Is this your villain origin story?” “No, but I suspect it’s yours.”

Normally, overcoming my insomnia requires two prescription medications, total darkness, a white noise machine, and a blessing from the Pope.

“Do you think they know what you need?” My mouth falls open. “Do you?” Silence.

I might not have much experience with falling in love, but I know now that’s what this is. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her. There’s no walking away from this, not for me. This woman is going to own me until the day I die, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Only yesterday my life was an angsty Victorian drama, and now I’ve somehow stumbled into fifty shades of holy crap.

the way he’s looking at me… Holy crap, I’m going to start humping my own panties if I don’t get a grip.

“Just to be clear.” His thumb strokes the delicate, translucent skin of my wrist, and goosebumps erupt all over my body. “I have feelings for you, I’m attracted to you, and I won’t pretend otherwise. Not anymore.”

👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

“You can do anything you want.”

“I want to feel you inside me even when you’re not anymore.”

“Have mercy, little tornado.

Let me feed you, then I’ll strip you naked and take you to bed. Would you like that?”

What happens next is out of my control. We are gravity.

Fuck, she’s so beautiful. Is it too soon to propose?

“Work-life balance is very important, Savvy. Would tying you to our bed and making you come until you pass out take your mind off things?”

OUR?! 😩😩😮‍💨

“You’re so cute with them. Like a nerdy, sarcastic mama duck.”

What’s your stance on making small humans?”

I have a high-stakes mission for you, Commander Wilder. Should you choose to accept it.” This is a scene in one of my books.

“It’s simple, Commander. You need to find and capture the rebel by any means necessary.” Christ.

“What happens when I capture the rebel?” “You’re awfully confident, Commander.” “Well, I did write the book on this.”

I am going to marry that big, grumpy nerd and have his oversized, grumpy, nerdy babies (sorry vagina), and that’s that.

I know what’s going to happen, but my heart still jolts when a dark figure appears out of nowhere, grabbing me… I snap the computer shut. Later. I’ll watch it later.

“I have a lot of frustration to burn off, baby,” he coos, leaning down to brush his lips over mine. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you?

God, he’s just so big. Wait, did I say that out loud?

“No. No, Savvy. You are my safe space. You are my home—you are my fucking partner.”