FIRSTS Stories: The Boys Tell All

Connor Reid

The surface of Lacey Sinclair's pool is black, like an oil slick. Like tar. Like something nobody would even want to stick a toe in.

I'm about to jump into it. Not from the diving board, like the other guys did. But from the balcony off Lacey's second-story bedroom.

If the fall doesn't kill me, Lacey probably will.

"Jump! Jump! Jump!" they're all changing. "Reid! Reid! Reid!" They're roaring, fists in the air, just like at baseball games, except at games I'm wearing a uniform instead of boxers and holding a bat instead of a beer can.

"Don't even fucking do it," Lacey says, crossing her arms. She already tried crying, begging, asking nicely, making promises we all know she won't keep. So now she's resorted to being just plain pissed. As in, hands on hips, doing that pouty thing with her mouth that girls do when they're mad, and swearing like a drunk sailor. Which is actually kind of hot.

"If you take one more step, I'll break up with you. In fact, maybe I'll break up with you anyway." She nods, sucks her bottom lip in. "Yeah, I think I might. I'm not going to be the girlfriend of some moron who ends up in a wheelchair because he's a drunk idiot."

"You won't dump me," I say, swigging from my beer can. I know I'm being an asshole, but I also know Lacey likes when I'm an asshole, even though she'd never admit it. She loves the drama, the fighting, telling her friends the stupid shit I do, making me work to make it up to her after. Girls like Lacey—hot girls who know they're hot—say they like the nice guys, but that's a huge load of bullshit.

"This is so over," she says, "You're too cocky for your own good."

"You'd know," I say with a wink. That makes her roll her eyes, but I can tell she wants to smile. "Besides, you're never going to break up with me."

There's a whole science to getting with girls like Lacey. No, more like an art. You have to chase them, but not make it look like you're chasing them. You have to flatter them, make them feel special, flirt with them, but then pull a disappearing act and stop replying to their text messages, no matter how bad you want to. If you don't know how to play the game, you end up wondering why you're alone in your room jerking off while the girl you wanted to bang is waiting for some other asshole to not text her back. Girls pretend they hate the game, but they love it as much as we do. Maybe more. And when both people give up and end up in a relationship—like I somehow did with Lacey—it's a struggle to keep things interesting.

Some guys cheat on their girls.

I cheat death.

Or, at least, that's what I'm hoping to do. Sounds crazy, but I have this whole plan. If I end up a puddle of brains and mush beside Lacey's pool, I failed miserably. Here lies Connor Reid, the guy who made the ultimate dramatic gesture. If nothing else, I'm giving her something to bitch about with her friends for a very long time.

Maybe I deserve to be scraped off the pavement. But trust me, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's reading girls like Lacey Sinclair.

"Oh, and what makes you think you're so invincible?" she says, looping her fingers in her belt and tugging down her tiny shorts in a way that looks like an accident, but I know she meant it. She's good. But I'm better.

"Two months, ten days, twenty-one hours," I say, finishing the last of my beer and crunching the can in my hand. "That's how long since I asked you out."

I watch her mouth curve into a smile. She's wearing this super bright pink lipstick that she thinks looks really great, but I hate how it gets all over my face when she kisses me.

"Two months, eleven days, one hour," I say with a dramatic head-shake. "That's how long since you said yes."

The shorts get tugged down just a little bit lower. Keep going. Maybe I won't jump after all. I take a step toward her. By the pool, they're still chanting my name. "Reid! Reid! Reid!" Some of them are booing, calling me a pussy. But it's all good. They'll get their show.