Free Cupcake by Rachel Cohn

meeting a new guy is hard, given Max's agoraphobic tendencies, which only further endears him to me, because how amazing are cranky people on a quest for true love, anyway--it's so cute and unrealistic;
    (4) Max eats random food like beets from a can and lox chips, etc., because he is very into consumption of small food items but not so into real meals, for no other reason than "just because," and if Max were three generations younger, I would suggest Just Because as the name for his queercore swing band, because the name completely explains Max; and
    (5) While Max does know many secrets of the universe (Laurence Olivier and Danny Kaye had a thing going on!--
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    my supposedly fine-tuned gaydar would never have deduced this based on their performances in either Rebecca or White Christmas, respectively), Max knows nothing about Hot Nude Yoga, though he agrees the flyer, retrieved from Mrs. VonHuffingUptight's handbag for Max's inspection, is enticing indeed. Like most things in this city, I'll have to find out about it myself.
    As Max stepped back inside his apartment for a bathroom break, I answered the call of the Luis. "Hey there," I murmured, in some previously unknown voice, as though Max's pipe smoke had wafted straight down my throat and was just waiting for Luis to check in so the voice could go all husky. And maybe get its owner lucky.
    Luis did that New York thing I love of skipping over pleasantries. He jumped right in like the center hoops-player he is. "Rumor has it you moved to New York instead of Berkeley with your boyfriend like you were threatening to do last spring when we ran into each other and exchanged digits. Rumor also has it the boyfriend es historia and that you've been doing the Ma'hattan thing going on three months already and haven't rung my cell once to let me know. 'Sup with that?" That deep voice, holding out the promise of sculpted biceps and ripple-tight abs. That Nuyorican accent, hard and street-smart fast with soft Spanish echoes. Sigh.
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    I couldn't resist busting his chops, a short little detour on what would surely be my opportunity to bust out. I teased, "What makes you think it's appropriate to call a girl so late? Are you aware that it's around midnight?" I could hear the Halloween parade revelry going by in the background of Luis's phone. He idled within my vicinity. Rumor must have told him that the Village Halloween parade vicinity was also within the new neighborhood realm of Cyd Charisse.
    Luis said, "Are you aware that I don't care? And if you're so concerned about the late night hour, why's your phone turned on, anyway?"
    I took my shot to get right down to business--I could never play hoops guard, because I am totally forward material. "Are you aware of the rumor that I turned eighteen not too long ago?" Jailbait no longer, but totally willing to temporarily be taken captive.
    Luis laughed. "Rumor might have heard that. So what's taking you so long? I'm right now in front of the Village b-ball court where I ran into you last time, right by your brother's apartment. You know the Mick D's round the corner from the court? How about I wait for your vanilla shake self outside the front, say--half an hour from now?"
    "Rumor has it that vanilla shakes like some hot fries with extra salt to go along with," I said, jumping up from the hammock. "Rumor expects you to be prepared when she arrives."
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    I love rumors, at least now that I am freed from the boarding school drama that was my high school past and the rumors aren't vicious (if true) ones about me. They're delicious ones bringing Loo-eeses to me.
    There's the key difference between me and those Nancy and Trixie sleuth girls. They never get to grow up and get theirs.
    I do.
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    ***
    THIRTEEN
    Picture this.
    You are striding through the Village in the middle of the night on Halloween, on your way to answer a booty call. You have permanently retired that VonHuffingUptight Halloween costume and changed into a comfortable and