{Emma}

“So he says, ‘We need to talk’.”

I grab the cherry from my drink and pop it into my mouth. “Nothing good ever came from a conversation that starts with those four words.”

“And then he says, ‘So, I’ve been thinking.’”

“Or those four.” The latest breakup recap sounds all-too-familiar. I grab my maraschino martini and take my time savoring the flavor. I’ll probably get diabetes from the drink, it’s so sweet, but it’s my favorite. It’s a risk I’m willing to take for a good martini. “Get to the part where you stabbed him with a fork.” I take another sip and add, “In the eye.”

Brittany Pearson, my dorm mate who also happens to be my best friend, rolls those way-too-pretty-to-be-natural-but-are blue eyes that have most men utterly lost and rock hard in a matter of seconds. “I didn’t.”

“In my version you did. Someone needs to be stabbed in this scenario to really liven up the story.”

“You’re terrible, Emma Rae.”

We both laugh and clink our glasses together. I love our girls’ nights out. Sometimes others from the dorm join us, but not tonight. Tonight is all about Britt’s broken heart, ridiculously expensive drinks in a trendy posh bar, and scanning for the next contestant.

Immediately that Nickelback song pops into my head. I don’t say anything or dare hum a bar for fear I’ll be labeled a douche B for even knowing the song. All their songs are about objectifying women in some way, shape, or form. And yet, I can’t stop myself from singing along whenever they come on the radio.

I scan the bar of choice for this round of breakup cocktails. I wouldn’t categorize it as the coolest, but it’s definitely better than the one we went to last time. That one had writing on all the walls and something sticky on all the surfaces. Check that one off the list.

At least once a month we hit up a different bar and go through the motions as Britt blubbers into her vodka cranberry over the one that got away. Each time, I bring my BFF back by giving her a shoulder to cry on. That and copious amounts of her favorite breakup cocktail. Since we’re on an island—Bainbridge Island in Washington State, to be exact—you’d think our choices would be limited. But Bainbridge is a college town. There are more bars than grocery stores. That pretty much sums up a college student’s priority. Fun first. Food later.

I throw back the rest of my drink and raise a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. When he swings those gorgeous dancing chocolate eyes my way, I lose my train of thought. Damn, he’s hot. Like, oh my God, take me home and make yourself comfortable between my legs hot. As I give him my best attempt at a little flirty look, he darts his gaze to Britt and her irresistible smile. The grin he’d only hinted at while looking at me takes full flight. As he shoots Britt a sexy, sideways look, he smiles so wide I see his back teeth.

And, just like that, I no longer exist. Awesome.

I try not to mentally compare myself to Britt. She can’t help that God gave her bombshell looks. Blonde curls that somehow catch the light, even in the dark. Blue eyes deeper than that diamond from Titanic. A smile that snags any man with a pulse. She’s got the whole package.

Then there’s me. Athletic build, as my gym teacher labeled me back in high school. I still don’t know what that means. My boobs are average size and won’t turn any heads without the proper pushup bra. Instead of blonde, I have red hair. Not the sexy red like Emma Stone or Lindsay Lohan before she lost her ever-loving mind. Or classic red like Maureen O’Hara. John Wayne had good taste casting her in his movies. Mine is more like the color of rust, or maybe copper. Either way, I used to hate it. When you’re the only redhead in the class, you get picked on. A lot. Now, I don’t mind standing out in a crowd or catching a guy’s attention with nothing more than a flip of the ginger mane.

It’s my eyes I hate. They’re something between algae green and shit brown. Some call them hazel. I call them boring and have debated getting colored contacts. But, alas, I can’t afford such luxury. I’m a twenty-two-year-old sophomore in college struggling to make it to a twenty-three-year-old junior in college. After high school, I took a few years to backpack across the country to find myself. I didn’t and still have no effing clue what I’m doing with my life. My major proves that. What the hell am I going to do with a major in general studies? It’s like an advertisement for having no idea what I want to be when I grow up.

But I digress…

Back to why I’m always comparing myself to my best friend. I shouldn’t bitch. I can hold my own. Well, except against the likes of Bombshell Britt. If Marilyn Monroe had been a size four, with a tight ass and ridiculously perky boobs, they could have been twins in the same time period. Am I jealous? Hells yeah. I want to look like the flight attendant from every man’s wet dream. I want to catch the bartender’s attention without having to raise my arm like I’m about to call out, “Bingo!”

But it is what it is. Am I model material? Maybe to someone with Photoshop. Or bad eyes. I’m not skinny enough and refuse to starve myself to fit into smaller size. My height is average at best. Maybe someone got the calculations wrong on that whole Body Mass Index scale. Regardless, I’m considered above average weight for my average height of 5’4”. I think the dickheads who came up with the BMI scale were all shallow assholes with tiny dicks. Why isn’t there some sort of scale to measure a man’s penis?

I rest my case.

Moving on. I get a lot of questions about my hair. Yes, it’s my real color. No, it didn’t come from a bottle. And no, I’m not going to tell you if the carpet matches the drapes. It’s amazing how many people ask—both guys and girls.

Every so often, someone comments on my freckles and whether I’ve stolen anyone’s soul. I laugh each and every time as if I’ve never heard that before while deep down I’m debating which hand to use to throat-punch them. Redheads hate their freckles. Ask any redhead. So, to point out something I hate requires me to automatically hate the pointer-outer. It’s the rule.

“Oh,” Britt purrs as she locks her gaze on the beautiful bartender—her next heartbreak. “He’s cute. Don’t you think he’s cute?”

I paste on a smile and force my disappointment down deep. Oh, to have the power to snag a guy with nothing more than my charm. Since my allure is masked by sarcastic wit and optimistic pessimism—or would that be pessimistic optimism? Either way, it’s a real thing—I won’t be snagging any guy tonight. “He’s definitely bangable.”

“I bet he can do things with those lips that will have me speaking in tongues.” Britt sucks her lower lip between her teeth and bites down, her smoldering gaze never leaving the bartender. He hones in on her and the two mentally fuck each other right there.

“Seriously, Britt? Aren’t we here to mourn the passing of the relationship known as Pritt? Or Braul? How exactly do you blend Brittney and Paul?”

“It was Peter,” she corrects.

I stop playing with the stem of the cherry from my drink. That didn’t sound right. “This wasn’t Paul?”

“No.”

“Wasn’t there a Paul in there somewhere?”

“Like four breakups ago, Emma. Try to keep up.”

“Sorry,” I offer as my attention wanders. Britt is back to attacking the bartender with her hungry eyes, so I scan the crowded bar for someone, anyone, to have my own mental sex with. Not seeing a single prospect worthy of a second glance, I sigh and drop my gaze to my hands in front of me, still playing with the cherry stem.

Maybe I should text Kayla since present company seems too preoccupied drooling over the bartender to carry on a conversation. Guaranteed she’s home, her nose stuck in a book. She’s a senior, and an overachieving one, at that. As if being on the Dean’s List every semester isn’t enough, she also holds down a full-time job.

I text her. Whatcha doing?

Studying.

Big surprise. I shouldn’t interrupt. She’s a bucket of stress during midterms. The instructors are taking great pleasure in pushing the students to the brink of sanity before spring break.

I text back, Have fun with that.

Are you out with Britt?

It’s breakup night. Kayla knows what that means, having joined us on several occasions as we helped Britt recover from another breakup. Most, if not all, of her breakups are self-induced. I never really understood why she needs to recover from a breakup she wanted in the first place.

I can be there in 15 with emergency chocolate.

I laugh and text back, This one requires vodka. I catch the way the bartender hasn’t stopped stealing glances at Britt since we walked in and add, And maybe a ride.

What happened to Britt?

Bartender. One word. That’s all I need to explain my predicament.

That’s one way to get over Peter.

Oh, sure. She remembers his name. Now I feel even worse that I thought this one was to recover from Paul. Then again, Kayla remembers everything. Get back to studying, slacker. See you Saturday. I work with her on weekends at one of the diners on campus. The wages suck, as do the tips. We serve greasy food and burnt coffee to broke college students. At least I eat for free, which is about the only time I get a decent meal.

A tingle whispers across my neck and I reach to rub it. Why do I suddenly feel the heat of someone watching me? I catch steely dark gray eyes indeed watching me, but they aren’t what has my heart beating faster and an odd hunger I didn’t even know I had in me spark to life. The owner of those eyes is so not my type. Why would I notice him? The guy takes the nerd look way too far. He has thick glasses perched on his nose, taped in the middle and all. His plaid button-up shirt is just that, buttoned up. All the way up. Is he sporting a mullet?

Maybe he lost a bet and had to dress that way. Or did it on a dare. The Pi Beta Deltas do stunts like this all the time to their pledges. Of course, it isn’t rush week, but that’s never stopped the Deltas from being dicks. That has to be why. Underneath that nerd costume is a hot guy waiting to be discovered. I need something to explain why I find myself attracted to who could possibly be the least attractive guy in the bar.

He’s sitting at a table with three recognizable Deltas, one the president of the frat, and all about ten points higher on the hotness scale. Yet something about him holds my attention. And then, as I’m about to come to my senses, he nails me with an intense look that has my stomach flopping and an odd sensation growing everywhere else.

I don’t turn away. Neither does he. My cheeks flame. I can’t seem to pull my gaze from him. The corner of his mouth tips up into a lopsided grin that has me ready to beg him to take me—in every sense of the word.

But then he lifts his beer and drops his attention, hiding behind it. The Delta president catches him watching me and the asshole laughs, which I don’t much appreciate. Typical Delta dick. From the way Mr. Steely Eyes sets his jaw, he doesn’t much appreciate it, either.

The bartender steps into the line of sight, blocking my attempt to give the Delta dick a glare from hell, which is probably for the best. I’m not very good at them.

“Vodka cranberry and one maraschino martini. Enjoy, ladies.” His gaze lingers on Britt, and she soaks it up like a thirsty sponge.

“He’s really cute,” she sighs as the bartender turns to wait on others gorgeous enough to be worthy of his attention.

“Yep,” I snap back, irritated I can’t stop sneaking glances at the nerd. Clearly, I’ve either had too much to drink or not enough. Or I’m exceptionally lonely. Or horny. Or both. This guy doesn’t even rate on my first date scale.

Yet, I can’t stop staring at him.

And now he’s staring right back at me.