Hiccup

A Short Story

Image by Vitaly Gariev, Unsplash

Nikki Reyes, 24

Austin, Texas

👖

I knew something was off the second he announced he was going into the shower.

It wasn’t a weird statement. We’d just hooked up, obviously, and he was sweaty as hell. We both were, this being Austin and this being summer.

But he’d said it so casually. Like it was his apartment, when in reality it was mine. And after all, I’d just let him into my bed, my body, and my Sunday night.

I said yeah, go ahead. Of course I did. Because that’s what girls like me do. Girls who pretend not to care. Girls who know better and do it anyway.

So while the guy (his name was Jace, or maybe Jayce, I never saw it spelled) rinsed off in my bathroom, I leaned against my kitchen counter in my robe, with my arms crossed like armor.

I could still feel him everywhere. On my lips. My skin. My every nerve. But the afterglow had already worn off, and all I had left was the aftertaste.

The city glowed behind the windows, Austin smeared in highrise haloes and light pollution. It looked peaceful from up here. Deceptively clean.

I picked up my phone. Started scrolling. Idly at first. Then…

Shit.

👖

The silence broke with the squeak of the faucet turning off, and then the bathroom door creaked open.

Jace stepped into the room wearing nothing but a low-slung towel, damp and unbothered, wet hair clinging to his neck. He flashed me a boyish grin like he thought being pretty might buy another round with me.

I didn’t say anything. Just watched him walk across the room and sit on the bed, water trickling down his back.

He caught my expression and gave me this half-smile, the kind guys like him deploy when they think they might need forgiveness for something.

“What?” he said, sweeping his hair back like he was in a commercial.

“You used my shampoo,” I said flatly.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning like it was funny. “It smelled like, I don’t know, forests or something.”

“Because it cost fifty-seven dollars.”

He shrugged. “Worth it.”

I didn’t laugh.

He slid over, kissed the side of my neck like he hadn’t just drained my hot water and disrespected my hair products, and said, “You’re intense, you know that?”

That was his word for me. Intense.

Not smart. Not interesting. Not sexy. Intense.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I said, not moving.

“It’s not. I just…” he started, but stopped. Like the rest of the sentence wasn’t worth finishing.

I got up and stepped away from him.

“You think this is funny?” I asked. “Like, all of it? You, here, like this?”

He blinked, suddenly unsure of what game we were playing. He thought he knew. Guys like him always think just because you laughed at their joke and moaned at the right time, you’re predictable. Easy. Nothing behind the eyes but a script they wrote in sophomore year at UT.

But I wasn’t easy. What I was was pissed.

“You told me you weren’t seeing anyone.”

He froze. “I’m not.”

“Right,” I said, flipping my phone screen up like a card in a poker game. “So you’re telling me this isn’t your girlfriend’s account you tagged?”

I turned the screen toward him.

There she was. Blond. Bikini. Soft-filtered in Cabo with the caption “Can’t wait to be home with you ❤️” posted nine days ago. His handle was tagged in the comments. He’d replied with a heart emoji and soon bb.

“Okay,” he said, hands up like a hostage. “That’s not what it looks like.”

“Really? Because it looks like she thinks you’re exclusive. And you’re here using my shampoo and pretending like this isn’t gross.”

“She’s… look, we’re complicated.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “You’re one of those.”

“One of what?”

“The ‘it’s complicated’ guys. Fuck, I thought you were just a mimbo, but you’re actually a cliché.”

“Come on, Nikki. Don’t make this a thing.”

“It is a thing. You made it a thing when you decided your dick had diplomatic immunity.”

He scoffed. “You’re being so dramatic.”

That was his second mistake.

My jaw tightened. I walked past him, grabbed his jeans from the chair, opened the sliding door and chucked them off the balcony.

He watched, stunned, as his pants floated down twenty floors and landed in the pool below. “Seriously?”

“Get out. Right now. Or I start live-streaming.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I met his eyes. Held the look just long enough for him to flinch.

“You don’t know me at all,” I said.

He left five minutes later, no more smug smile, no parting kiss. Just wet tracks on my hardwood floor and a trail of masculine confusion.

When the door clicked shut, I exhaled. Hard.

Then I turned off all the lights except the one over the sink and lit the single lavender candle my sister gifted me to help with “emotional clarity.” I didn’t believe in that shit. But I needed something to do with my hands.

I stood there in the dark, robe still damp at the sleeves, city still sparkling outside, and felt something shift.

It wasn’t rage. That had passed.

It wasn’t sadness either. I’d had my heartbreak era in college, back when I still made doom playlists and cried about being ghosted on TikTok.

This was something else.

Satisfaction?

No.

Relief.

Because the truth is, I didn’t even really like the guy. He was a distraction. A great set of abs with a nice voice and zero resistance to manipulation. I knew what I was doing when I let him into my apartment. Into my bed. I just didn’t expect him to be so… predictable.

I ground up some weed and stuffed my bong bowl until it looked like an ice cream cone. Fired up and took a long hit, letting the smoke swirl out the kitchen window. My reflection stared back at me: mascara smudged, hair tangled, mouth set in a hard, dry line.

I didn’t look like a girl who’d just been dumped or cheated on or even played.

I looked like a girl who’d already done the math.

I looked like myself.

👖

When Ivy came home around eleven, she found me on the couch in my panties and an old t-shirt, holding a bag of popcorn and my cellphone. I had the TV on mute.

She flopped down next to me. “What happened?” she asked as she picked up the bong.

“Another male disappointment,” I said.

She nodded. “Water’s wet.”

Ivy lit up. The room was silent, except for the bubbling. After a moment she exhaled and said, “Anyone I know?”

I didn’t look at her. “Actually, yeah.”

I let the words sit for a few beats. Then I turned toward her.

“It was Jace,” I said. “I didn’t know until after.”

I showed her my phone. The post was still up: Ivy in that pink two-piece, curled around him like she trusted him with her life. A line of heart emojis underneath.

I watched her take it in. No twitch. No gasp. Her face didn’t change. She just exhaled, slow and even, and reached for the popcorn.

“You swear you didn’t know?” she asked.

I nodded once.

We sat there for a while. The TV flickering in the background. Some crime show, probably.

“He told me he was between things,” she said finally. “Said he wanted to take it slow.”

I snorted. “He took about forty minutes.”

She cracked the barest smile. “Sounds like him.”

I packed the bowl again. “You gonna tell him?”

She shrugged. “What’s the point?”

“All men are bastards,” I said.

Another silence.

“He left a sock in my sheets,” I added.

“Burn it.”

“Done.”

Ivy leaned back against the couch. Eyes closed. Face blank. She slipped her shoes off.

Just another hiccup in hookup culture. We’d both seen worse. Done worse.

“We good?” I asked.

“We’re always good,” Ivy said.

And that was that.

👖