Electric Moonlight Shuffle

3. Ramble On

"Flynn put what WHERE?" says Jamie.

"Oh please," I say, twirling lo mein around my fork. "You sound like a bad Snapchat story. It was an accident, and he was mortified."

Me and Jamie sit cross-legged on the thick carpet in my living room, by the mahogany table, surrounded by boxes of Chinese food. Lo mein, dumplings, chicken and broccoli, veggie fried rice, won ton soup. Shiny packets of soy sauce and duck sauce. Two empty Blue Moons. Two fortune cookies still in the plastic. John Mulaney's The Comeback Kid plays on the flatscreen on the merlot-colored wall, softly in the background.

For the past hour, Jamie has been grilling me about my hookup with Flynn—a hookup which had been, for the most part, quite good.

Lots of soft neck kisses, lots of playing with each other's hair. Sweet and tender.

Until I climbed on his lap for a little dry humping (I felt so small between his huge thighs!), and he reached his hand up my thigh and under my skirt and pulled aside my underwear and...well, his fingers went in something.

I yelped.

Flynn's face went so red. He apologized over and over. He clearly wasn't one of those bros who just go for it and then are like "oh, my bad, was that the wrong hole?"— when clearly that aforementioned bro knew exactly what hole he was touching. Flynn genuinely missed. He was so embarrassed that I made up a lame excuse about my dad being on his way home (like that would ever happen) so he could leave and save face.

I'd been avoiding sharing that little mishap with Jamie, because Flynn was so mortified, but let's face it, I tell Jamie everything. It's impossible not to.

"So Flynn's a virgin?" says Jamie, his mouth full of fried rice.

"Maybe," I say, getting up and going into the kitchen. "Who knows? Do you want another beer?" (For the record, my dad has been cool with me and Jamie drinking since freshman year. Well, me and Jamie have been stealing my dad's beers out of the fridge since then, and he still hasn't said anything. It's not like he's ever, you know, around enough to notice.)

"You're avoiding!" Jamie calls. "He totally is!"

"Drop it!" I grab two cold Blue Moons and two orange slices and bring them back into the living room.

"Fine," says Jamie. "I just see the way he looks at you—"

"DROP IT!"

"Okay," says Jamie, putting his hands up in surrender. He turns to the speaker, on the floor.

I sit and put the beers on the table. We press our orange slices through the bottlenecks and clink our beers together.

"Cheers."

"So tell me again," says Jamie, fiddling with the speaker. Love on the Brain comes on.

"Sage really seemed excited, not freaked out?"

"Oh my God," I say, stretching out my legs. "How is it possible that you've identified the one topic of conversation I want to discuss less than my makeout session with Flynn?" I wiggle my red-painted toenails.

"Come on, please," says Jamie. "I really like this girl."

"As much as you liked Amy Shoehorn? Or Gluten-Free Greta?"