Oh! You Pretty Things by Shanna Mahin

he says, extending a well-muscled arm in my direction. “Megan’s told me so much about you.”
    I hold my hummus-encrusted hands up in an apologetic wave. “I’m pretty slimed. You might not want to risk it.”
    Also, I’m profoundly aware of my breasts bobbing against the slack fabric of my bikini top and the breeze blowing on my girl parts through my pajama pants.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” he says, pulling me into a bear hug.
    I really should enjoy this more, but all I can think about is my vast acreage of sweaty skin pressed against his body, which even through his goofy shirt feels as cool and hard as a granite countertop. When I raise my eyebrows at Megan over his shoulder, she just shrugs, like
Who, me?
and plunges two fingers into the vat of hummus on the countertop, swirling some into her mouth with a flourish.
    I disengage from JJ’s hug and cant my body away from his view. I mean, I try to practice a modicum of healthy body acceptance, but there are limits. I’m standing in front of Michelangelo’s
David
wearing a clown nose and a fat suit.
    Megan makes a little humming noise of food enjoyment. “Boof, are you kidding me? Is there crack in this?”
    She scoops again, then extends her hand toward JJ. He opens his mouth like an agreeable baby bird to take the proffered mouthful from her outstretched fingers, which she immediately puts back into her own mouth.
    They stand there for a moment in a little porny hummus bubble.
    I flee to my bedroom and start throwing on layers of clothing. I mean, I know he’s here with Megan and all, but I watched the hell out of every single episode of his sitcom, and now he’s in my fucking kitchen.
    A minute later, Megan slides into my room and shuts the door behind her, flinging herself against it dramatically and contorting her face into a silent scream. She’s an actress. She pulls it off.
    â€œThis looks serious, Boof,” I say, throwing a knee-length batwing T-shirt dress with a ripped neckline over leggings and a tank top. “How did you guys even meet?”
    I’ve seen the cast list for Megan’s pilot. If JJ Kelly were on it, believe me, I would have noticed.
    â€œHe did a cameo.” Megan peers into my mirror to inspect what looks like a carpet burn on her left elbow. “The director is a friend of his mom’s. I wasn’t even supposed to be on set but I left my journal in my trailer, and I didn’t trust a PA to bring it back without looking in it.”
    My laserlike focus pinpoints the most important question. “Am I in your journal?”
    â€œWhole chapters.” She piles her hair on top of her head and looks at me via my reflection in the mirror. “If I hadn’t forgotten my journal, I’d never have met him. Meant to be, right?”
    Megan knows I don’t believe in “meant to be.” Meant to be implies there’s a reason for every fucked-up thing that’s ever happened—not just to me, but to Donna, to Gloria, telescoping all the way out to the world in general, Bosnia, the Gulf War . . . Come on. Everything most decidedly does
not
happen for a reason. And Megan knows that, which is why she loves to torment me about it.
    â€œYeah,” I say, deadpan. “It’s fate. Like that hickey.”
    â€œIt’s not a hickey.” Megan raises a self-conscious hand to her neck, then points at the door and stage-whispers: “
JJ Kelly!
”
    I laugh. Even celebrities are awed by celebrities. Although, granted, Megan is C-list, at best, and JJ is on the cusp of A, even if he hasn’t been all that visible lately.
    I’m not going to pretend I’m not intimately acquainted with his résumé. He played the handicapped-yet-wise son in a dysfunctional oil family before the advent of competitive reality shows and acronymed cop shows. Then he had an awkward phase, which is where most child actors become