My Accidental NFL Boyfriend

TO CLEAR THINGS UP:

            Caleb’s “I love you” wasn’t actually true; he didn’t know the meaning of love & barely grasps the concept now. HOWEVER, I touched up on the “Fake girlfriend” aspect because he dated Jay not only to get rid of his 2 crazy exes, which, I’ll try to include later to further diminish the confusion, but he does like Jay. He just thinks it’s because he likes teasing her that he “likes” her.

            I didn’t know how I ended up here, but I did. I was sitting on a bench in the middle of the rougher side of Bronx, my stolen car shining in some lot a mile or two walk away. All I knew was I was here, I was a little tipsy, and I wanted to go home.

            An hour previous I was drinking alone in a little bar with barely any people in it. Nobody could judge me as I downed my drinks, nobody could judge me looking like a total hooker, and last of all, I wouldn’t see anyone that I knew. They all lived in Jersey. I was just another lonely girl looking for a sexy Justin Bieber. Just kidding, his hair was weird.

            I sat at the bus stop, hoping it would bring my closer to my car than my heels could. Just another half hour wait and I would be back in Kelsey’s house, sleeping on Kelsey’s bed, and eating Kelsey’s food. Someone sat next to me, and I immediately tried covering my half exposed butt cheeks in case it was a rapist or some sort. However, it wasn’t. It was a guy around my age, obviously poor (but who was I to judge, I had no home and just stole a famous football player’s car), who was fiddling with the hem of his worn out tshirt. He wasn’t that bad looking, if I looked past his Salvation army clothes. I guess I should start shopping there, too.

            “Hi,” I say, “are you waiting for the bus too?”

            He looks up to me, his glassy blue eyes blinking at me, “y-yeah.” He didn’t completely focus on me, but above me, then below me. Was he high?

            “It’s a little chilly.” I like striking up conversations when I was tipsy. Everything seemed to flow better; I found all the right things to say. That sounded like a confession from an alcoholic.

            “Why are you talking to me when you’re looking for someone?”
            I look at him sharply, “what? I’m not looking for anybody.” He shrugs, looking back at his hem, grasping the loose string between his index finger and thumb and pulling at it.

            “You’re in love.”

            “And you’re high.”

            “But you’re also drunk.”

            “T—that wasn’t the point.”

            “It was. You have loneliness in your eyes, desolation. Kind of like a lost puppy.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Yeah, I like puppies.”

            “Um.”

            “You’re dress barely covers your cleavage,” he announces suddenly.

            “Why are you looking there?”

            “Why are you wearing it?”

            “Who even are you?”

            He pulls out something from his pocket and puts it in his mouth, and I grab his hand, “spit it out.”

            “Spit what out?”