Let's Waste Time

See—the thing about life is that—well—sometimes it's kind of an asshole. A lot of times, actually. For me? Most of the time. I would jump into a situation thinking, "I can handle this. I've been through much worse." And a few months later, it would turn into the mother of all clusterfucks. I was good at getting myself into a clusterfuck. It started at birth when I was born from my mother on the wrong date, not looking the slightest bit like her or her husband.

So that's me. Clusterfuck from day one. Marley Johnson. The unlovable, bastard spawn of—who knows? Certainly not the man on her birth certificate.

The rest of my life continued to be one clusterfuck after another. Some things aren't worth mentioning but made me even more unlovable as I grew into an adult. And then there was Trent. He was probably the King of the Clusterfucks. I was about eighteen. Giving college the old college try. And I was madly, desperately in love with an older man training to be a pilot.

I thought Trent was perfect. He was the man of my dreams. He was tall with dark hair and dark eyes that would suck me in and drown me. He was everything I thought I wanted in a man. He seemed to have his shit together. He made me laugh. He made me smile. And most of all, he made me feel loved. Like I was important. Worth knowing and loving even though I shouldn't have been born in the first place.

But if Trent was the King of the Clusterfucks, he had to, of course, have a Queen. And her name was Sasha. Not Marley. And that's what gave Trent, the man of my dreams, the title of King of the Clusterfucks. Because he was already married. In the process of getting a divorce. But married nonetheless.

Which brought me to the most recent, most unexpected of all clusterfucks. Christopher McClean. Completely unexpected, completely unwanted, and completed me.

It was kind of sad.

So there I was—a twenty-year-old college dropout living in San Francisco. My family wasn't around much anymore. And by "much," I mean "not at all," of course. Because again with the unlovable part. So I didn't have any family around on holidays. But I did have a trio of the biggest nerds in the world who were the best friends someone like me could ever ask for. And they had families that had all collectively decided I was theirs too. I was living in a crappy one-bedroom apartment in a building that was older than my grandparents, whoever the hell they were, and I didn't have any prospects for a successful future.

Trent had gotten his pilot's license, and he worked all the time. He lived in Los Angeles with Sasha and their son. And—he was still seeing me whenever flights brought him into the city.

My life was—pathetic. I'd had dreams once. Trent and I would fly off to fabulous places all over the world. When he finally got around to that divorce, obviously. And we'd get to spend all our days wrapped up in the bliss of love or whatever dumb things I thought when I was eighteen and in love for the first time.

But that just wasn't happening. Because, at twenty, I was still very young and very naïve. Trent worked a lot. He didn't make much money, and what little he did make went to taking care of his child and his sickly wife. Whenever he did fly into the city, he was irritable and tired. He'd show up at random hours that usually clashed with my work schedule. We'd sometimes go on a date or get dinner or something if it was the right time, then we'd end up back at my place. Where we'd screw each other until he passed out. Then, as soon as the sun rose in the morning, poof, he'd be gone.

He called me whenever he could. He was planning on filing for divorce as soon as Sasha's epic kidney disease was dealt with because she needed his insurance to fight it. But it wasn't the same. I wanted more. Someone to come home to. Someone to fall asleep next to. The general dull domesticity of a real relationship. No wives. No secrets. Just us.

But to be fair, it was shocking to me that he even liked me at all. I was never a popular kid. Never the pretty one or the funny one and definitely not the smart one. I was a huge dork. And not a cool nerd either. Not the kind that were played by cute actors on TV. My glasses were really high prescription and made my eyes looked small and out of focus. I'd never gotten braces, so my teeth were a little crooked. And I didn't like the right music or dress the right way. I didn't know calculus or excel in any sciences. I was just one of those boring pop culture nerds. There was no room for science or math in my brain because it was full of movie scripts and random trivia facts. I could recount the entire Star Wars trilogy (the original) word-for-word, but I couldn't memorize my own social security number. I failed introductory algebra, and if my bank didn't calculate my expenses for me, I'd probably never know if I had enough money to make ends meet.

And I hated my job. I did customer service for a local internet company that realized there was no point in dishing out money for a facility when they could just have people work from home. Which was, of course, the whole reason I wanted the job in the first place. I loved working in my pajamas, eating Cheetos between calls, not having to look nice. No one cared if I skipped a shower or stuck my bare feet on the desk. The only problem is that it was just hours and hours of the most mind-numbingly dull work possible.

My dream job was to play video games for a living, like a beta tester or something. My mother used to tell me that wasn't a real job, but someone had to test games, didn't they?

But life was unfair and cruel, and I was, to wrap this up, miserable.

And that's when that other clusterfuck had to happen.

I called him "81 with the black door." Because our apartments shared a stoop and he lived in 81 with the black door, which was right next to mine, 81a with the red door. He'd moved in right after my former neighbor died of a heart attack during a game of Jeopardy. We didn't really acknowledge each other much at first. Occasionally, we'd end up on the stoop at the same time, and we'd nod to each other in that forced politeness that pushes the boundaries of what most Californians are capable of.

He was attractive in a traditional sense. In the way unattainable celebrities are. Very symmetrical face. Tall. The kind of look that said, "If I had any acting talent, I'd play a troubled sixteen-year-old love interest on a teen drama on the CW even though I'm a grown man." You know the type. But even though I was aware of his "attractiveness," I never looked at him and thought, "Damn, I want to get my hands on that."

Mostly I just noticed his butt. Because I'd once seen him bend over to pick up a newspaper off the stoop, and it was really nice and shapely. Like he ran a lot or something. Which struck me as the type of thing he did.

Either way, he seemed to find me just as uninteresting. And I don't think he ever paid much attention to my butt. Not that there was anything for him to notice anyway. I wasn't tall or curvy by any stretch. And what I meant is that I was approximately five feet tall and got away with ordering from the kid's menu until I was eighteen. So I couldn't exactly see a guy like him looking at a girl like me and finding anything appealing. He was probably the kind of guy who dated would-be models and Disney pop singers.

We'd spoken to each other a few times. Usually, just the polite, "Hey, how's it going?" thing people say when they accidentally bump into you in the morning on the doorstep. But it was obviously one of those questions where the asker doesn't really want a response. So all you have to say is, "Hey, what's up?" and go on your way.

Our first real conversation happened on a chilly January night. I had a severe case of insomnia. My mom used to tell me that I thought too much. I could never sit still for very long. And when my brain was supposed to shut off and rest, it just kept me up with buzzing thoughts and crazy dreams. My mom said I had an overactive imagination, but my doctors said it was ADHD.

I'd had a pretty crappy day. Trent was supposed to fly into the city and take me on an actual date. We had a whole day planned, and I was almost positive it was going to be the date where he revealed he was finalizing his divorce with Sasha, and we could finally move in together. But then his flight got canceled due to a snowstorm, and he decided to cancel. Not postpone. Cancel.

I was wearing a dorky beanie that looked like a patchwork raccoon. I remember this because I felt kind of embarrassed about it when Chris's car pulled up in front of our building, and I realized a cool person was going to see me. It was an instant panic response leftover from a traumatic four years of high school. I was hiding in a hoodie and an oversized scarf, and I was holding a warm, steaming mug of lemon tea-flavored cold medicine.

I sat on the front steps a lot. It was a childhood habit that started because my mom would make me sit out on the front steps of our house whenever I acted up, or she was just sick of looking at me. I spent a lot of time out there. So whenever my mind needed to slow down, or I couldn't sleep, I would go out there just to watch the city twinkle as I collected my thoughts.

That's where I was sitting the day Chris McClean climbed out of his car and walked into my life.

I was clutching my mug, my glasses were foggy, and he looked about a thousand times cooler than I'd ever been in my whole life. He was wearing a leather jacket (faux, I later learned). His light brown, practically blond hair was cut short and in the current style. But it was messy in that way that made it look like he'd just run his fingers through it, but it probably took him a long time and a lot of product to achieve. He was usually clean-shaven, but he had a five o'clock shadow going on that assured me puberty had come hard and fast for him. He was tall, at least six feet, and broad. And his cute butt was the first thing I noticed when he leaned into the backseat of his car to pull out his gym bag. He slung it over his shoulder, shut the door, and then turned around to start up the steps.

"Hey," he said with a casual nod. I nodded back.

"Hey," I replied.

And then he did something I never expected. I thought he'd just leave it at that, walk into his apartment, and never say anything more than that. We'd go about our lives. I'd stay with Trent and work things out in misery for the next few years, and he'd probably go off to marry his high-school sweetheart, who was probably a cheerleader. Maybe he'd even land that role on the CW, and I'd come across it one day while flipping through channels and be like, "Huh, that guy sure looks familiar," and that would be the end of it.

But something stopped him. Something inside that pretty head of his, under that perfectly styled hair, behind those baby blue eyes. In that weird, lovable, doofus jock brain of his, something told him to wait. To talk. To make a friend.

"You're up late," he said. I blinked a few times, startled by the decision that had taken him a nanosecond to come to.

"Insomnia," I explained, still expecting that to be the end of it.

But he just nodded and leaned against the railing. The bag looked heavy on his shoulder, but he didn't act like he noticed it. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and looked down at me with eyes the same shade designated for baby boys. Even in the dark, I could tell they were light and vibrant. Not the dull shade of blue-gray eyes I usually saw. The kind that was truly, intensely blue.

"Doesn't tea have caffeine in it? Probably not going to help you get any sleep," he remarked. I looked down at the steaming mug. I wasn't expecting a conversation. Least of all from a guy who probably would have bullied me if we'd gone to high school together.

"Not all tea is caffeinated, you know? Either way, it's not tea. It's Theraflu. I don't actually have a cold, but it helps me sleep." His eyebrows rose in mild surprise.

"Isn't that considered drug abuse?"

"I mean—probably."

"I might have something that'll help. My girlfriend makes it for me when I can't sleep."

I appreciated the slip about the girlfriend. His way of showing me this was a friendly conversation, and he wanted me to know it. But this conversation had already crossed from a polite few words with a neighbor to something approaching friendliness.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, c'mon. I'll show you."

He headed up the remaining steps, skipping them two at a time on his stupidly long legs. I stood up slowly behind him. I was a little concerned and unsure. I didn't trust jock-type guys who invited girls into dark spaces.

But then again—we were adults and not in high school or teen dramas on the CW. Besides, I was 99% sure I'd caught the flash of a Hufflepuff crest on his keychain. It could have been an obscure sports team. But the badger was a dead giveaway. And that just didn't seem like a very Hufflepuff thing to do.

"It's not dirty, is it?" I asked anyway.

"What?" He laughed and shook his head. "I promise that's not what I'm doing. I'm not trying to get down your pants. Just trying to be friendly." Of course, he wasn't. Because he was a gorgeous Hufflepuff, and I was just a troll Slytherin.

"Good," I decided. My stupid brain was whirring into 'you're not witty. Shut up, you idiot,' territory. "Because I haven't shaved my legs."

Instead of looking at me like I was a complete moron like most people did, he seemed to find this funny and/or charming. He let out a bark of laughter and shook his head again.

"That wouldn't have been an issue."

And if I'd had any sense, I would have swooned. But I didn't. Because at that point in time, I thought of Chris and me as two completely different species congregating at the same waterhole. So incompatible that we didn't even speak the same language.

"Alright then, sure."

"I'll just get my stuff put away, and then I'll be right over."

"Okay."

He disappeared into his apartment, and I stood there for a second, wondering what in the hell had just happened. Was this the beginning of a friendship? Or was this one of those 'I'm bored and don't want to be alone tonight' kind of situations?

I definitely never expected it to end up where it did—a clusterfuck of a problem.

Or you know, with me on my back, but that would come much later. We'll get to it.

I headed into my apartment and took off my coat. I wasn't sure if I should clean up while I waited for him. But it was too late anyway. He showed up just as I was kicking my slippers off and let himself right in.

"You mind if I get a cup?" he asked, headed right for my kitchen.

"Uh, no. It's fine."

He dug through my cupboards until he found what he was looking for. Two of my collectible Garfield mugs that said things about 'Mondays' and 'Lasagna.' He set them on the counter and opened my fridge. But this time he didn't find what he was looking for. He moved a few things around, probably taking note of my garbage eating habits.

"You don't happen to have any apple juice, do you? I should have asked," he finally said. Like this was a normal thing people had in their fridges at twenty years old.

"Uh no. what do I look like? A four-year-old?"

He stood up and faced me, arm still leaning casually over the open fridge door.

"I might have some. I don't know if it's actually important to the overall effect or if it's just a chaser, but I always do it with apple juice."

"You won't find any here." He nodded slowly.

"That's alright. Let me go double check my fridge."

And he left there again. I stood there, still for once, for a good minute or two. Perplexed. Baffled. And all other sorts of synonyms.

When he came back, he let himself right in, holding two bottles of kid-sized apple juice. I watched him work in that vaguely interested way a baby watches cartoons with lots of color and movement.

He poured apple juice into the Garfield mugs and then reached into the pocket of his faux leather jacket to produce two tiny shot-sized bottles of Jack Daniels. Then I smiled.

"This is some kind of remedy," I remarked. He glanced up and smiled wickedly. Enough to turn my insides into mush if I wasn't a complete dumbass who fancied herself in love with a married man. But I was, and it had no effect.

"Cheers," he said, sliding the glass over. We clinked our ridiculous mugs against each other's and downed them in one gulp. I stuck the glass back onto the counter and fought the urge to cough, unsuccessfully. He barely winced. "How'd that taste?"

"Like it reached into my soul and set it on fire."

"Good. One more should do the trick."

"And if it doesn't?" He shrugged.

"Then you don't have to trade your drug habit for an alcohol habit." He made another drink and handed it over. And that's when I decided that I'd misjudged him, and he was actually kind of cool and funny.

"Cheaper, though." I drank my juice and handed the cup back so he could wash them off in the sink. "How long does it usually take?" He shrugged and set them in the dish drainer.

"For me? Anywhere from a few minutes to a half-hour, depending on how tired I really am."

"Sweet. I think Pirates of the Caribbean is still on if you want to watch it with me."

I had no idea where that came from. A minute ago, I still counted us among different species. But now, I was the one approaching friendliness. It was probably the alcohol. Which was a common cause of the most epic of clusterfucks.

That and love, but we'll get to that later.

"Yeah, sure," He decided with a casual shrug.

So he followed me to the couch, and we both sat down to watch the movie. I had no idea what to say to him. It felt weird. I wasn't super good at conversations, especially with strangers.

"So, are you an athlete or something?" I asked.

"Kinda," he explained. "Not professionally."

He was leaning against the couch with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs stretched out under the coffee table. I curled up on the other end, leaning against the arm of the couch. He seemed relatively nice now. I didn't think he'd try to take advantage of me. And both the alcohol and the juice had come from fresh bottles. I'd heard the seals crack when he opened them. And the alcohol wasn't enough to make me incoherent or anything. Two shots didn't do the trick. But it still felt weird to have a man other than Trent or my dumb friends in my apartment. I felt strange even when the maintenance guy came to fix things.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" he asked after a long while. I was startled by this question. He'd made sure to let me know he had a girlfriend before this all started. So I wasn't sure what his motive was behind this question.

"Uh yeah, actually. I do."

"He's not going to come home and flip out if he finds me here, is he?" Ah, that made sense. He didn't want to piss off a random dude.

"Oh um—no. He'd probably be cool about it," I told him. Trent would not be cool about it at all. But I didn't want to tell him that Trent was currently hundreds of miles away and likely not showing up tonight.

"Good. So what do you do for a living?"

"Customer service. I work from home."

"That's cool. It must be nice to be home all day." So jock boy was an introvert. That was unexpected.

"What about you? What do you do?"

"Construction mostly. I work for a union, so they're the ones who find me odd jobs. I play baseball on the weekends, though. That's what I'd really like to be doing."

"That's neat."

I rested my head against the arm of the couch. And that was the last thing I remembered about my first encounter with the man who'd change my life.