My eyes were tired, my fingers sore and callused. I turned on my phone and looked at the time. It was quarter to six. I had been practicing my cello in my university practice room for over two and half hours. I stood up, felt all of my vertebrae crack from my tailbone up. I grabbed my water bottle and took a long swig from it and heard three knocks on the door.
I turned around and saw my orchestra stand partner, Jack. My heart fluttered.
Jack was handsome. Very handsome. He had thick brown hair that was often disheveled, and thick brown eyebrows to match. His eyelashes made every woman jealous, as they were long and thick. His eyes were dark hazel and very intense. Every time he looked at me, I felt as though he wasn't just looking at my face, but into my soul (I know, it's cheesy, but very much true). He wasn't skinny, nor fat. He was just the way I like them: with meat on their bones. Built.
He was a good cellist. I first met him my senior year of high school. He's a year ahead of me. We were in the university orchestra. We hit it off immediately. He was funny and smart.
"Hey Sara," he said.
"Hi. What's up?" I asked.
"Taking a break from practicing."
"Ah. Same here."
He came in, shut the door, and sat on the piano bench next to my cello chair.
"Ugh. That piece. I've been drilling it for hours. Still can't get the treble part for shit."
"Same here. My fingers are killing me."
"Fair. Hey, do you want to go grab a bite to eat at the commons? I'm starving."
My heart, once again, fluttered uncontrollably. I didn't understand why, though. He obviously has a girlfriend. I mean, his talent, looks...everything. He would never settle for a girl like me. I had boring blonde hair, green eyes, defined eyebrows, and I was short, and, to be completely honest, a little fat. There's nothing a man would like about me, except for maybe one thing: I have huge boobs. Big. Annoying. Boobs. People often ask me (rudely) how I even play the cello. I just shake my head and walk away. But, the point is, I think guys would only like me for my boobs. They're pigs.
"Yeah, let's get something to eat," I said.
We walked out of my practice room and I locked the door.
"Two weeks 'til the concert," he said as I pulled my cello case down the hallway. You ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."
I put my cello in my locker and locked it.
On the way to the commons, he talked about orchestra and his classes. We've talked a bit here and there, but nothing notable. He had no idea that I thought he was the sexiest human on this planet.
After we got our plates of food, we sat down at a table in the dining area.
"Twenty Secrets," he said, smashing a potato with his fork.
"What?" I asked, putting dressing on my salad.
"Let's play Twenty Secrets. It's a way for us to ask what we want."
I shifted in my chair, slightly uncomfortable. I didn't like the idea of sharing secrets.
"Alright..." I said.
"Don't worry. I won't tell a soul," he said, his eyes glistening.
I nodded.
"I'll go first," he said. "I'll start off easy. What's your middle name?"
"Ann," I answered.
He nodded, "Your turn."
I sat and thought for a moment.
"Umm..." I said, unable to think. "I don't know."
"Sure you do," he prodded, "Just ask me anything you want. I won't lie."
I stared at his face. Should I go all in and ask him everything I want to know? Or should I go nice and slow and ask the simple things: What's your favorite food? What's your favorite football team? What's your favorite solo piece?
"Do you have a girlfriend?" I blurted. My face burned with embarrassment.
"Nope," he said flat out.
I scrutinized his face, my eyes narrowing.
"Nope," he repeated.
"Really?" I asked, still suspicious.
"Really, really."
I felt a bead of sweat bead on my neck.
"Your turn," I said.
"Okay," he sighed. "What's your bra size?"
I stared at him for a moment, "Excuse me?"
"You have to answer," he smiled.
"Jack---"
"You have to answer," he repeated.
I sighed and felt my cheeks ignite again.
"Double D," I said, refusing to look him in the eye.
I saw him nod from the corner of my eye.
"Your turn," he whispered.
"Okay, why did you ask that?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest.
"You can't ask that," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because it doesn't count! You can't ask a question about a question that's been asked."
I scoffed, "Where exactly is the rule book for Twenty Secrets, hmm?"
He tapped his head with his index finger, "Here."
I was getting irritated. Who does he think he is going from What's your middle name? to What's your bra size?
"You're really rude," I said.
"How so?" he asked, eyes wide.
"Because you're...you're---"
"I'm...what?"
I stood up.
"I'm late. I have to go study," I said.
"Sara," he said, standing up, too.
"Jack, I have to---"
"Because I was curious. I wanted to know what your bra size is because that's just who I am. I just wanted to know. Twenty Secrets is supposed to be hard. You have to answer things you wouldn't always want to answer," he explained.
I thought for a second.
"Okay," I said, setting my plate back down and staring at him, "Are you a virgin?"
He smiled.
