October 2000

“So, we’re cheering for the guys in black. Got it.” I discreetly slid my phone out of my pocket for the third time that hour and illuminated the screen. Still no word from Hans.

“And what’s their name?”

I tucked my phone away and rolled my eyes at Ken. “The Falcons.”

“And who’s their quarterback?”

I pointed at the big screen TV in front of us. “The one in the tight pants with his head up that other guy’s ass.”

Ken tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “His name.”

“Uh…Chris?”

“Chris what?”

I looked around, hoping to find a clue hidden somewhere in Jason’s sparsely decorated man cave. Just as I was about to give up, Allen walked by wearing a black Falcons jersey with the answer to Ken’s question in bold red letters across his back.

“Chandler!” I shouted. “Chris Chandler. Number twelve. Boom.” I tapped my temple with my index finger and gave Ken a smug smile. “Got it all right here.”

Ken glanced over his shoulder at Allen and laughed. “Really?”

“Man”—I stretched and pretended to crack my knuckles—“all that learnin’ wiped me out. I’m gonna take a smoke break. Wanna come?”

I didn’t actually expect the Gatorade-drinking dude in the workout clothes to join me on the balcony so that I could blow secondhand smoke in his face, so I was pretty surprised when he stood up and said, “Sure.”

Not that I minded. Ken was actually really easy to talk to and smart, and he didn’t hit on me or make me feel weird like some of the other guys at Jason’s house. The Alexander brothers had practically dry-humped me against a wall the week before.

At the same time.

Ken opened the back door for me, and the crisp night air stung my cheeks. I flipped the hood on my Phantom Limb sweatshirt up over my head and pulled the drawstrings tight. It was almost coat weather.

I loathed coat weather.

Ken took a deep breath and exhaled. “I fucking love fall. It smells like football season.”

I inhaled the scent of burning leaves and smiled. Every October, when the forest Atlanta is carved out of sheds its crinkly, rust-colored fruit, people have to either bag it or burn it to keep from being buried alive under it. And since Southerners love to burn shit, the whole region smells amazing for a while.

“You love something?” I teased. I set my beer down on the railing and held my cigarette over the edge to keep the smoke away.

“I love stuff,” Ken retorted, taking a seat in one of Jason’s patio chairs. He rested an ankle on his knee and draped his plastic-bottle holding hand over the armrest, casually waiting for me to reply.

I’d never seen somebody so comfortable just sitting. I always had to be doing something. Smoking, drinking, talking, gesticulating with my hands, playing with my hair, but not Ken. He just sat still. And looked at me when I spoke. And listened. And then, when it was his turn to talk, he would say some smart-ass shit that made me question whether or not he was an asshole.

I’d never met anyone like him.

“Oh, really?” I said, taking the bait. “What do you love?”

“Football.”

“Okay.” I rolled my eyes.

“And baseball,” he added.

“And let me guess…basketball.”

Ken grimaced. “Nah. Fuck basketball. They score too often. It gets boring.”

“Did you play sports in high school? You look…athletic.”

And also, you wear running pants like they’re regular pants.

“Yeah. I played pretty much everything, but football was my favorite. I played until my senior year. Then I quit.”

I coughed in surprise. “You quit? You just…quit? During your senior year? You could have gotten a scholarship and shit.”

Ken shrugged. “I didn’t want to do it anymore. I was sick of getting up at five in the morning and staying late after school every day and having coaches scream in my face. So one day I just…quit going.”

“Wow. Were your parents pissed?”

“Fuck yeah. Everybody was pissed,” Ken said with a smile. A wicked, middle-finger-up kind of smile that made me see him in a whole new light.

Pajama Guy had a defiant streak.

“So, what I hear you saying is that you don’t actually love football. See? You love nothing. I told you so.”

Ken laughed in defeat. He had a nice smile. I felt weird, noticing his nice smile, so I busied myself by pulling my phone out of my pocket to check the time.

“Oh shit!” I cried. “It’s eleven eleven!” I held the illuminated screen out for him to see. “That’s my lucky number! Make a wish!”

Ken lifted an eyebrow and glared at me as if I’d just asked him whether or not Santa Claus was real.

“Don’t tell me you don’t make wishes either.” I held up my left hand and dramatically counted off Ken’s don’ts on my fingers. “You don’t drink. You don’t smoke. You don’t gamble. You don’t make wishes. What about when you blow out your birthday candles? You have to make a wish then.”

“I don’t celebrate my birthday. Or holidays.”

“What? Why?” I gasped and covered my mouth. “Oh shit. Are you a Jehovah’s Witness?”

Ken laughed again. More pretty white teeth.

“Fuck no.” He chuckled. “I’m an atheist.”

“Then why do you hate all things good and wonderful?”

Ken stood up and crossed the balcony, leaning on the railing next to me. He was wearing a plain gray hoodie and smelled like he had just pulled his entire comfy wardrobe out of the dryer. “I don’t believe in blindly buying things just because of a number on a calendar. Like Valentine’s Day. Who says we all have to uniformly buy heart-shaped bullshit just because it’s February 14? Hallmark made that shit up. It’s corporate brainwashing.”

I laughed as I exhaled, causing my stream of smoke to come out more like a dotted line. “How does your girlfriend feel about that?”

Ken stared out into the parking lot and lifted an impassive shoulder. “Never had one.”

I held up a hand. “So, let me get this straight. You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you don’t gamble, and you don’t believe in holidays, religion, or evidently, commitment. Next, you’re gonna tell me you don’t eat chocolate.”

“Actually…” Ken peeked at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh my God!” I squealed. “No way! You really are the enemy of fun! What about caffeine?”

“Nope.”

“Sex?”

My eyes went wide as soon as I heard my own question.

Shut up, BB! What the fuck?

I was just about to apologize when Ken turned to face me, wearing a smirk that said he was anything but offended.

“I’m a fan.”

“Oh, you’re a fan.” I smirked back, arching a brow.

Lifting my almost-empty beer bottle in a toast, I said, “Well then, to sex and cursing, the only two things we have in common.”

Ken smiled and lifted his Gatorade bottle. “Cheers.” The plastic container met my glass bottle with an unsatisfying thud.

As we drank the last swallows of our beverages—mine piss-colored, his purple—I watched Ken’s mouth and wondered who he was having sex with.

Not that it mattered.

Nope. Not at all. I was totally not into Pajama Guy. And besides, I had a boyfriend. Who lived with me, most of the time. And he was going to be home from Nashville any minute.

“Well, I gotta go. I have school in the morning.”

Ken polished off his sports drink and screwed the cap back on. Sticking it in his pocket, he said, “I should go too. I’ll walk you out.”

He opened the door for me and slid my empty beer bottle out of my hand as I passed. When I looked over my shoulder at him in confusion, Ken explained, “Jason doesn’t recycle.”

I snorted as I grabbed my purse off the couch and waved goodbye to the Alexanders and Allen, whose eyes were glued to a buxom blonde giving a blow job on Jason’s big screen.

Ugh! Do all guys fucking watch porn together?

Jason was standing—or I should say, swaying—in front of the television, transfixed.

“I gotta go, man. Thanks for having me,” I said, giving him an awkward side hug.

Jason brought his arm down around my shoulders and slurred, “Look it. This is the most expensive porno ever made. Jenna Jameson’s in space. Fuckin’ final frontier, man.”

“Please tell me it’s called Fucking in the Final Frontier. Because if not, that was a missed opportunity.” I giggled, struggling to get out from under Jason’s arm, but he had pretty much shifted all of his weight onto my shoulders, turning me into a human crutch.

“C’mon, man,” Ken said, pulling him off me. “Here we go.” He helped Jason into his armchair where he passed out pretty much on contact.

“It must get pretty fucking old, hanging out with drunk people all the time when you don’t drink,” I said as we descended the four flights of stairs to the parking lot.

Ken shrugged. “It’s cheap entertainment.”

“Technically, it’s free entertainment.”

“Even better,” Ken snapped his fingers and pointed at me in one fluid motion.

I chuckled as we reached the parking lot and followed Ken to a burgundy Mitsubishi Eclipse convertible parked in front of Jason’s building.

“Is this your car?”

“Yep.” Ken pushed a button on his keychain, causing the headlights to blink.

“Looks awfully fun for somebody who hates everything.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, turning to face me. “I drive it really, really slow.”

I cracked up. Ken didn’t laugh with me, but he smiled as I doubled over at his expense.

“I guess you’d better leave now if you wanna get home by sunrise, old man,” I teased, standing up and sucking in a breath.

Ken didn’t reply. He just stood there, watching me.

“What?” I asked, my hysterics dying down.

“Nothing. I’m just gonna wait to leave until you get home safe.”

“Oh, I just live over there,” I said, pointing to the shittier two-story building across the parking lot.

“I know.”

“Oh. Okay. Well…maybe I’ll see you next week?”

“Maybe.” The corner of Ken’s mouth pulled up slightly as he folded his arms across his chest.

With that awkward salutation, I took a few hesitant steps away from Ken and his shiny little convertible, then turned and headed for the home that didn’t feel like home yet.

Pajama Guy didn’t even hug me goodbye. All my friends hug me goodbye. Are we not friends? I wondered, my feet carrying me closer and closer to my empty new apartment. I knew without even scanning the cars parked out front that Hans wasn’t there. Hans was never there. But I was trying real hard not to think about that.

Just before I reached my front door, I remembered the way Ken had fought his buddies off like an unaffectionate ninja the first night we met.

Ha! I totally forgot! I snickered as I shoved my key in the lock. Ken hates hugs, too! That motherfucker really does hate everything!

I turned and waved across the parking lot at my non-hugging new friend.

Ken replied by nodding once.

I snorted as I stepped into my pitch-black apartment. He even hates waving! What an asshole!