Hey guys! This is my first published work for Teen Wolf (and in general, so excuse my formatting struggles). I was watching WYN and got some serious detective!stydia vibes. Obviously I took some liberties with the plot, but I did borrow some dialogue. There's your disclaimer! Hope you enjoy :)
"Babe, I don't know about this."
Josh, her boyfriend of nearly three months, blinked at Lydia from the other side of the bed. "I mean, a wedding? That's feels kind of serious, don't you think?"
"I don't know," Lydia glared at him. The question had been innocent at first, but she was beginning to lose her composure. "Things felt pretty serious last night. And the three consecutive nights before that."
He shook some hair away from his forehead. "Look, I just don't think I'm ready for- I mean, your mother is going to be there."
There was nearly five minutes silence before Josh finally sighed, slipping out from under the covers. "I think I'm gonna head out. Maybe we should take a little break, or something."
"Yeah," she agreed bitterly, "Maybe we should.
He pulled his previously discarded jeans over his boxers and yanked a grey v-neck over his head. "You can still call me, you know, if you ever just want to hook up. No strings, or whatever."
Lydia plastered a big, phony smile across her face. "Gee, Josh, that is so incredibly generous of you."
"It's been fun." He gave a little wave, clicking the door shut behind him. Lydia threw her face down into her pillow and groaned.
An hour later, the sun had risen over New York City, and Lydia was staring unblinkingly at an issue of Cosmo flipped open on her kitchen counter. Her glass of orange juice hadn't been touched in minutes, nor had her avocado toast. "What's Your Number?" the page's title read in swirly pink letters, teasing her, as if the accompanying article wasn't a death sentence.
Okay, death sentence was maybe a bit dramatic. It was just an article, probably written by a less-than-average writer for a magazine Lydia didn't even particularly care for. But the study itself, now that was reputable. And if it were true-
Her gaze fell to the crumpled paper beside her magazine, on which she'd written the names of all 19 men she'd ever slept with. Just a brief glimpse made her cringe. Jackson Whittemore, Jordan Parrish- come to think of it, "J" names were a recurring theme.
In its opening paragraph, the Cosmo article suggested that your so-called "number" was very telling in regards to one's romantic fate. "In America, 96% of women who have been with 20 or more lovers can't find a husband," the small text read.
It wasn't that Lydia needed a man, by any stretch of the imagination, but she wanted a family. She wanted marriage, someday.
The most frightening part was that Cosmo's statistics were backed up by a significant amount of research. If there was one thing Lydia couldn't argue with, it was numbers. Her odds were growing slimmer, and she was ever a perfectionist. The next man she slept with, man number 20, would just have to be her husband.
Lydia's train of thought came to an abrupt halt when her phone started ringing. She dove for it on the other side of the counter.
"Al?"
Allison's voice crackled on the other end. "Lyd, I've been trying to reach you all morning. Kira and I are going for lunch."
"Josh and I just broke up," she interrupted.
"Oh god, Lyd, I'm so sorry."
"It's fine. It's-" She thought for a moment, "I'm actually a little surprised at how not upset I am." Now that Cosmo's words were seared permanently into her brain, her ex was the last thing bothering her. 96%, she thought.
"I'm not. Josh was kind of an asshole."
"I might not have a date to your wedding."
"Whatever," Allison reassured her, "You'll barely have time for a guy, what with all those maid of honor duties."
Lydia smiled, "You're right."
"Listen." Her friend was hardly audible over the sound of cars honking outside. "I'm gonna find out when Kira wants to eat, and then I'll text you. Meet us at Sarabeth's."
Before Lydia could even say "Got it!" the call ended with a beep.
Dreaded magazine now tossed haphazardly across her couch, Lydia sent a quick text back to Allison, agreeing to meet her friends at 11. She was just tossing her glass of orange juice in the sink when the unlocked front door came crashing open, and a man stumbled in.
The recognized him from the few times she'd seen him in the hall. He lived across it, in apartment 8A. She knew very little about him apart from the fact that he was loud and frequently had girls over. Nonetheless, he had no excuse for barging into her kitchen unannounced. Lydia hurriedly gripped a frying pan that had been soaking in the sink.
"Woah, easy there 8B," he gasped. His voice was groggy and deep, like he'd just woken up.
Lydia gritted her teeth. "What the hell are you doing in here? Get out! Or at the very least, knock!"
He scratched his neck. "I, uh, locked myself out. Left my wallet in there, keys, everything."
"And you decided the best way to handle that would be breaking into MY apartment?"
He grimaced at her volume. "Trust me, I won't be making that mistake again. Can I just borrow a phone, or something?"
Lydia loosened her grip on the pan.
"Alright. You can have 3 minutes. Not a second more. And only because I owe you for accidentally jamming your mailbox last week." After a moment, she added, "You can use the phone on the counter."
"Deal," he laughed. "Man, aren't Californians supposed to be a little more low-key?"
Lydia's head snapped around to meet his eye. "How did you know I'm from California?"
"Oh, I do a little recon on everyone in the building," he said, helping himself to an apple from the bowl on the dining table. "My dads a cop. It's a family thing."
"It's an illegal thing," Lydia corrected, her eyes beginning to narrow again.
"Relax, I'm just making sure there aren't any homicidal maniacs here on the eighth floor." He took a bite. "Mrs. Hale in 8E got busted for shoplifting last year. But otherwise we're clean."
"You have absolutely no concept of privacy," Lydia informed him while tossing a few plates into the dishwasher.
"I wouldn't say that," he retorted, "My name's Stiles, by the way, if you didn't catch it on the mailbox. Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. Incredibly rude of me."
"Not as rude as busting through my front door." She rolled her eyes. "I'm guessing you already know my name."
"Sure do, Lydia," he grinned. A big, lop-sided grin that Lydia might've found endearing if he wasn't on her very last nerve.
He looked like he might say something else, but before he could, a hard knock came at the door. "I was never here!" Stiles called, scrambling off the couch. She heard him curse as he tripped into the back hallway, running into something with a loud thud.
Lydia shot a confused glance in his direction before answering the door. A tall girl with sandy hair and wide, dark eyes stood on her welcome mat. She was wearing a man's flannel shirt.
"Hi," the girl began, "You haven't seen your neighbor around here? Stiles? From right there across the hall?"
Lydia shook her head. "Sorry, no." She wondered why she didn't just rat Stiles out, when she had every reason to. Maybe she did feel kind of bad about the mailbox.
"Huh," Stiles's date muttered, "I swore I heard him leaving this way down the hall. I have to go to work, but if you see him, just- uh- let him know I tried to say bye." As an afterthought, she added, "Let him know Malia tried to say bye."
Lydia nodded a silent agreement before shutting the door and marching quickly around the living room wall. Stiles stood behind it, just far enough to be obscured from the doorway.
"Hey," she said sweetly, "You think that girl who just left your apartment could've helped you with the lock out situation?"
He laughed nervously. Lydia dropped the facade, prepared to show him how angry she was.
"You dickhead!" She yelled, "You came over here to hide from some stranger you had sex with last night!"
Stiles raised his hands in surrender. "Yeah, okay, I'm sorry. The locked out thing seemed more palatable." He gave her a look. "It's not like I haven't seen you pulling the same thing in the morning." His words didn't even sound defensive. Hell, he was actually smirking at her.
"Oh my god," Lydia cried, "I can't believe I live across the hall from a total sleazeball. At least I'm straightforward with the guys I kick out, not that that's at all your business."
"Look, I just don't want her getting the wrong idea. It's a clean break. No hurt feelings."
"Do you want a woman's perspective?"
Stiles raised an eyebrow, neglecting to answer. Lydia continued anyway.
"You're pathetic. And you're a pig. And your three minutes are well beyond up," she snapped, grabbing his arm and practically shoving him out the door.
"Thanks," he managed, "You're a peach, Lydia!" And then, just like Josh, he was gone.
Allison and Kira were already waiting for her when she made her way into the cafe half an hour late.
"Lyd! We ordered you a mimosa!" Her best friend shouted from a window booth.
"And a salad," Kira added. They were used to ordering for each other.
Lydia took a seat across from them, and almost gasped when she saw the cover of this month's Cosmo sitting atop their table. That same cover that had glared at her all morning, mocked her even.
Kira followed her gaze to the magazine, and immediately flipped it over.
"We're trying to figure out what are numbers are," she explained, gesturing toward that stupid, godforsaken article.
"Ooh, I forgot Isaac before," Allison piped up, "So that makes mine…twelve."
"Skank!" Kira giggled. "Thats 1.5 more than the national average."
Allison shrugged. "I bet the New York average is higher."
"Are you kidding? 10.5 is crazy high," Kira exclaimed, "I mean, my number's only 3. How about you Lydia?"
Lydia shrugged. "Who cares?"
"We do," Allison said matter-of-factly.
"Um," she hesitated, "Well there was Josh of course, Aiden... I guess... nineteen?"
"Nineteen?!" Kira gasped. Lydia felt her cheeks go red. She didn't meet her friends' eyes, instead watching her fingers as she re-tallied. Max, Aiden, Thomas, Stuart...
"Shit!" She gasped out loud.
"What?" Ally and Kira wondered in unison.
"I forgot the scuba instructor, from spring break sophomore year." She groaned. "That's 20. My goddamn number is 20."
Lydia let her head fall dramatically onto the table. Kira patted her back. "It's not a big deal, Lyd. It's just an article. Cosmo's hardly trustworthy anyway."
Lydia wagged her finger at the first paragraph, which she'd probably read over a hundred times that morning. "The study was done by fellow at Harvard," she pointed out. "A post-doctoral fellow."
"Well if it means that much to you, you can always marry one of those 20 guys from the past," Kira offered.
"That's hardly likely," Allison snorted, "Lydia only sleeps with dimwits who aren't good enough for her."
Lydia glared at her, and she softened. "Not that it even matters, Lyd. What's the big difference between 20 and 21? Or even 22?"
"Statistics!" Lydia practically shouted, "And by the way, I had very meaningful relationships with some of my 20. Jackson-"
"Dickhead," Allison interrupted.
Lydia pretended not to hear her. "And there was Jordan-"
"He was okay," Kira cut in, "A little old, maybe."
"And Josh, who may have just dumped me this morning, but-"
Allison shook her head. "I don't mean to be harsh, but I could've told you ages ago Josh wouldn't work out. He's a Brooklyn hipster douchebag and you have nothing in common with him."
Kira nodded, "He times your showers to save water."
Lydia rolled her eyes. "Fair enough. But Josh aside, I think you guys are being overly critical. I could very well marry one of my twenty men! In fact, I think I'm going to try."
"Well, it wouldn't be a completely terrible idea to look them up," Allison conceded, "People change. But, please God, don't settle for some idiot just because Cosmo told you to."
Lydia smiled. "Ally, I do have some dignity left."