Chapter 1 - Lover, You Should've Come Over
(excerpt)

I never expected that a beer-guzzling, hormone-fogged 23-year-old would spurn my sexual advances. What is he, gay? I raise my head and look over at him as this thought occurs to me, then reconsider.

"What?" Elliott asks, noticing my quizzical look.

"Nothing," I say quickly, shaking my head. "Never mind." I plop my head back down on the bed. I need to leave. Or smoke a cigarette, or drink some more wine, or have an orgasm or something. I can't just lie here and help Elliott Rowe come to terms with his reluctance to screw me.

"So where do we go from here?" I ask. "Do you want me to go now? Has this night been damaged beyond repair?"

Elliott sighs deeply, stretches, and consults his watch, the only article of clothing he's still wearing.

"It's getting kind of late," he says simply. I shoot him a look. Is he asking me to leave now? Isn't he at least going to try to make amends for coming in my mouth and then giving me that ridiculous lecture?

"So you want me to leave?" I ask, trying to keep the exasperation from creeping into my voice.

"Hmm." He glances at his watch again. "Maybe you'd better.

I rise wordlessly from the bed and begin pulling on my jeans.

"Your top is in the other room," Elliott notes somberly. "I'll go get it." He disappears into the living room. I sit on the edge of the bed, still not quite grasping what the hell just happened. I look over at his bedside table, where a one-hitter lays beside a typed version of the "Footprints" poem in a little wooden frame. Oh, I get it. He's one of those Christian hippies who smokes pot because it makes him feel closer to God or something. My aunt Trish used to date a guy like that. He would sit around her apartment toking weed and playing Kum-Ba-Yah songs on his guitar. My sister used to call him Patchouli Man, because he reeked of the stuff. She told me that people used patchouli oil to cover up the smell of pot, a little factoid that came in handy years later when I was in high school.

Elliott returns, carrying my boots in one hand and my blouse in the other. He presents them to me with a weak smile.

Excerpt from chapter one of the novel Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Ryan. All rights reserved.