Playing the Part

8. gag a little

Allie

I don't know what made me think I'd be able to fall asleep without Alex in the apartment and after Everett Scott grabbed my ass. 

Or after Zach Riley (allegedly) cat-called me with his eyes. 

Or after I felt Everett's hard length rub against stomach. 

But instead of letting those thoughts aimlessly ricochet through my mind, I shoot a quick message to Alex to ask if she's safely landed and attempt to start writing my dreaded film dissertation on - well, I haven't gotten to that part yet. 

I think everyone's got some form of master procrastinator potential in them; it's completely human to be a lazy bitch sometimes. 

But when you miss multiple cardinal deadlines (ie: a college scholarship application deadline (I literally begged on my knees for them to let me in)), you know you've got a fucking problem. 

And the first stage to fixing said problem is acceptance. I've accepted that I'm like that. And I've also accepted that the perfectionist in me will not let me start this dissertation without panic writing two days before the deadline. 

So I do what I do best: I plan. 

It's semi-productive so I don't feel like a lazy piece of shit but not too productive for me to actually make a dent in my dissertation. 

It's like setting a starting block at the starting line but never actually running the race. 

I keep brainstorming until I eventually fall asleep with my laptop open and with not a single coherent sentence written. 

*

I wake up groggy to the sound of insistent and aggressive pounding on my door. 

I shuffle over to the door and open the door to Everett, who's wearing white joggers, a grey sweater and a green cap that says Elo Eagles on it. 

"Morning stranger." 

I yawn and swipe a tear off the corner of my eye. "What are you doing here?" 

"How're you still sleeping; it's ten thirty." 

"It's a fucking Saturday, Everett. Get a life." I mutter indignantly. 

He takes his cap off and fits it over my matted hair. "We're going to watch Zach play a home game in," he checks his phone, "ten minutes." 

My pulse quickens at the mention of his name and I'm no longer sleepy. 

I push the blanket off my shoulders and rush to the toilet. The cap flies off my head and I almost trip over the stupid bathroom ledge. 

"Why are you always telling me about The Game Plan like five minutes before the actual thing?" I squeeze a fat dollop of toothpaste onto my toothbrush before scrubbing the shit out of my teeth and tongue. 

Everett walks over and leans on the bathroom doorframe, playing with the rim of the cap. "Because then it leaves you with less time to overthink." 

I brush my tongue a little too passionately and gag a little before spitting the toothpaste out. 

Everett catches my little hiccup and half-coughs. 

"You didn't see that." 

He holds his hands up in surrender. "I didn't see that." 

Everett watches me as I do my makeup with the dexterity of a five-year-old toddler (I'm not usually like this, I swear), smearing mascara all over my lids.