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Scheduled for Friday
by Anton M.

4: Don Jon Master


Thursday, January 12 (cont.)

We settled by a window. Edward leaned against the windowsill, adjusting his scarf before he crossed his arms, and he turned away as he coughed against his shoulder. His sleeves were ragged enough to split the edges in two, and his worn striped sneakers belonged in a dumpster fire.

"It's not corona," he said, clearing his throat.

I felt my stomach flip when we locked eyes. I was nervous. All of my closest friends were girls, so I didn't really know how to behave around tall, lean, attractive guys who intimidated me, even if his hoodie would've served the world better as a mop head.

And the fact that I liked the bizarre VapoRub-mixed-with-hot-sauce scent of him totally took me aback.

"Buckley's cough syrup!" I replied, finally understanding why he smelled so weird. "That's why you smell like Pine Sol and VapoRub mixed with ammonia and thrown into a burning field of peppermint schnapps."

Pull your lip over your head and jump into a well of fire, Bella. You cannot human.

The guy nearly keeled over in half-wheezing laughter. He had a bigger fang on the left side of his mouth, and his grin transformed his face into a kind, charming spectacle. My heart went full supernova in my chest, and I felt like I wanted to crawl out of my skin and throw myself at him.

Damn, I really had to practice talking to guys more.

"I'm sorry," I backtracked, mortified. "That was rude."

"Maybe," he replied, voice hoarse, still wearing a smile that did funny things to my stomach. "But not inaccurate. I didn't know the taste of Buckley's could be put into words but you did it admirably."

Admirably.

Screw other guys. I want a guy who uses words like admirably. If he, despite all signs, turns out not to be Edward, then I do not want an Edward. I want this guy.

I crossed my arms in front of me, mirroring his posture. He had the loveliest lips, shapely and somehow still manly, with the cutest curve to them, and combined with his height, wide shoulders, and the way he silently assessed me, I was covered in tingles.

I was thrilled that the hair stylist on set had braided my hair into a cutesy, semi-permanent braid around my head, but less so about the three brown spots of acne scars on my left cheek. I never wore make-up to school because I was submerged in it on set (and I wanted to give my face time to breathe), but I desperately wished I'd stolen some of Thiago's magical concealer for today.

Oh, well. Too late now.

"I don't even know your name," Edward admitted, quietly, his hoarse, soft voice so at odds with how intimidating he'd first looked.

"Bella," I replied, learning to human around attractive boys. "Bella Swan."

"Bella." He smiled and cleared his throat. "Edward. I'd shake your hand but—" He motioned at his throat. "You might catch my death virus." He pulled his lower lip into his mouth and looked at my disastrously dirty jeans. "I just wanted to find you, to apologize. It's not a great excuse, but I thought you were someone else, and you caught me off guard. I didn't mean to hit you. Does it hurt a lot?"

After our morning meet-ugly, I'd expected his character to be in line with his unapproachable, almost military-like appearance, so his concern melted me a little.

"I've had worse."

"I've seen you limping," he argued, and somehow the knowledge that he'd been observing me made my heart feel too big for my chest.

"Only when I forget myself and sit on it wrong." I smiled. "Really, it's nothing. Will probably go away by tomorrow."

He hesitated, his eyes skimming over my waist, hips, and legs, and I almost flew away in the knowledge that he was checking me out until he said, voice rough, "I should probably cover the cost of your jeans."

Aw. Of course. The jeans.

Whoever said that money didn't buy happiness had never been poor enough to realize how much security money bought—and how much happiness security could bring you—and judging by the sneakers Edward wore, he was in no place to offer to pay for my jeans. Four years ago, I would've cried had I fucked up my mom's favorite designer jeans this badly. I would've been so ashamed to go home I would've lingered at school just to postpone facing mom's disappointment.

I'd never been happier to not have to worry about the cost of jeans. Mom would be disappointed but she'd understand, and it wouldn't break my bank to replace mom's favorite jeans for her.

"Oh these? They were a lucky thrift store find," I lied, desperate to soothe his fear. "No more than eight bucks."

They were not a lucky thrift store find, and probably cost more than everything Edward currently wore, including his backpack and maybe his motorcycle, depending on whether his bike cost more or less than four hundred dollars. (Which is why I shouldn't have been wearing mom's most expensive pair of jeans to school...)

"Eight bucks?" He coughed into his scarf. "I can cover that. What's your number? I'll Venmo it to you."

I almost cried.

"I don't have Venmo," I said, grateful that I hadn't succumbed to peer pressure. Technically, being underage, Edward shouldn't have had it, either, but I'd yet to find anyone in high school who didn't pretend to be eighteen in the app.

"No worries, I'll get you cash tomorrow."

"Please don't. It was my own fault, anyway."

"Please," he said. "I insist."

Why was everyone in my life so damn proud? I decided that if Edward succeeded in giving me eight bucks, I'd hide a hundred in his backpack. Stupid, proud, stubborn boy.

He watched me play with the edge of my cropped blue sweater, and I pretended that beautiful boys wearing my grandma's window blinds as a hoodie had no effect on me at all.

Totally chill. So casual. I talk to cute boys alone all the time.

"What about your hand? Are you okay?"

"Just a few stitches," he replied, waving me off. "If I get a cool scar I'm telling everyone a shark nearly bit off my fingers."

I laughed, and maybe I was imagining it, but his eyes seemed to linger on my face, and I felt a thousand little butterflies in my stomach.

"But anyway," he said, taking out his phone. "I know why you approached me."

Oh my God.

Run away. Deny everything.

It's not too late to pretend to be a pot plant.

How, though? Did Alice give me away?

In today's episode of unsolved mysteries, we explore the story of Alice Brandon, a girl who burst into flames after answering an easy question wrong in biology while the class laughed at the chocolate stain on her butt. Many believe the killer to be her best friend Bella, but not only has the saintly actress never had a bad thought about her best friend in her entire life, she was also a palm tree at the time of the incident.

Not knowing whether to own up to my fake crush or to run away, I peeked at him through my fingers, waiting for my death sentence.

"You're the third person who's approached me to be the Don Jon Master for our dee n dee. You ever been a Don Jon Master before?"

My heart started beating again as I let out a breath.

"Oh, yeah," I bluffed, desperate to agree to anything that didn't reveal my maybe-now-more-than-fake crush on him. "Tons of times."

What's dee n dee and who the fuck is Don Jon Master? Am I joining a cult?

"Really?" he asked, resting his jaw on his fisted hand. "Who do you usually play with?"

"My family," I replied, quietly, hoping that dee n dee, whatever it was, didn't involve any cultish sex acts.

"Oh that's cool," he replied, almost dismissively, glancing up from his phone. "Wish my relatives played it. But you'll be happy to know you're the first person who's approached me who actually has experience as a Don Jon Master, so you're in. We meet on Saturdays at six at Jasper's. We usually make an attempt to dress up as the characters but obviously you're an n pee see."

I pee and see what now?

"Fantastic," I replied, playing along, as if I had approached him for this.

I tried to seem cool and collected as we exchanged numbers (definitely not the first time for me to get a boy's number, oh no), and when he said a quiet, a bit hoarse, "See you on Saturday," and his elbow brushed against my arm as he left, I fought with myself not to grin like a lunatic.

I annoyed Alice with my silence as I stifled a smile for the rest of the day, and when I slammed our front door shut in the evening, and my dad asked, "So how did today go?"

I had to tell him the truth.

"I ruined mom's favorite jeans and might've joined a cult but I got the boy's number."

So it was all worth it.

DnD or D&D – dungeons and dragons is a fantasy role-playing game ("dee n dee")

Dungeon Master – the storyteller and referee of the game ("Don Jon Master")

NPC – non-player character ("n pee see")

A/N: Your thoughts are the best.