I adored them. They were fabulous and pink and with hot heels that made her legs go on for miles.

But I was suffering from a raging case of crotch face so instead of being the supportive friend, I told her I didn’t care about her stupidly awesome footwear. I had then proceeded to tell her to leave me the f**k alone.

I had stomped off to my room, slammed the door dramatically and then promptly turned around and apologized.

Gracie inquired as to whether Aunt Flo was visiting.

It was a legit question.

But Bitch McGee (that would be me) took offense and stomped off to my room again.

The rest of my week hadn’t been much better. I was short-tempered and emotional. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.

And I blamed Cole Brandt completely.

This is what happened when I spent time with him. I lost all sense of rational thinking. I became a mess of epic proportions.

I was a flipping psychopath!

It got so bad that Marion had asked, somewhat hesitantly, if I was coming down with something.

I was coming down with something all right. It was called Can’t-Get-Over-A-Man-itis. The main symptoms involved spending an inordinate amount of time wallowing and feeling sorry for yourself.

I should have felt a renewed sense of power! I had put my foot down and not had sex with Cole when he was being all sweet and gorgeous-like.

I had told him what I thought and held firm.

So why was I feeling all sad and depressed with random outbursts of uncontrollable rage?

Because deep down I knew, that even though he drove me crazy, Cole was the only person who made me feel alive. With anyone else, Theo included, I was just going through the motions. With Cole, it was balls to the walls, let’s set the house on fire passion.

And I was terrified with how desperately I wanted that in my life. I was scared at how willing I was to sacrifice just about anything, my pride included, to experience those tantalizing moments when every nerve in my body detonated.

Cole was my crack. And I wanted to crush him up and snort him.

When Gracie had asked me to come to a movie with her and a few of her friends from the coffee shop, I had declined. I chose to ignore the brief look of relief that flittered across her face.

I opted instead to spend my evening with my best friends Ben and Jerry.

I was grunged out in my oldest pair of sweat pants. They were a pink with the faded word “juicy” along the ass. The elastic had given out about twenty washes ago and I had them held up with safety pins. I had gone sans bra and instead wore a Generation Rejects shirt I had ganked from Cole’s floor over a year ago.

And yes I had kept it. And yes I still wore it when I was lonely and depressed like I was now. And yes that made me borderline pathetic.

There was no sense bringing up the fact that I used to try to smell his scent on the cotton for months after I had “mistakenly” brought it home.

Because that would be just plain sad.

I had scrubbed my face and was without any makeup. All in all I wasn’t meant for public eyes.

I was scrapping the last remnants of my icecream from the bottom of the carton with my spoon when the doorbell rang. I startled and almost screamed. Not because I was scared, but because I was in my Juicy sweatpants with no makeup on.

Who in the world would be coming by at eight-thirty on a Saturday night? I prayed it was a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses or an old encyclopedia salesman I could ignore.

I quickly took my hair down and attempted to comb my fingers through it. It was a rat’s nest and desperately needed a deep conditioning. I pulled up my sagging pants and walked over to the door just as the bell chimed again.

I wiped around my mouth trying to remove the evidence of my binge ice cream eating before finally opening the door.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I said before I could censor myself.

“Bad time?” Cole asked, standing on my front stoop, looking gorgeous and clean and nothing at all like the last time I had seen him. He was holding two plastic bags and was wearing a pleased grin.

I thought about slamming the door in his face and hiding in my room but I figured I was capable of rising above such an immature impulse.

“Anytime you show up is a bad time,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest, remembering that I wasn’t wearing a bra and my C cups were flopping away under my T-shirt.

“Is that my shirt?” Cole asked, peering at my chest. I tightened my arms and started to back away.

“No!” I lied.

Cole lifted an eyebrow. “Actually, I think it is! I’ve been looking all over for it!” he accused chidingly.

“Whatever, it’s mine now,” I responded petulantly.

Cole chuckled. “It looks a hell of a lot better on you anyway,” he conceded and I couldn’t argue with the truth.

“Why are you here, Cole? I was having a perfectly good evening spending time with Leonardo DiCaprio and Baked Alaska,” I said, feeling entirely too off balance by his sudden arrival.

I couldn’t figure out what on earth he could be doing at my apartment. Things had been left with little opening for a renewed acquaintance. I thought I had made myself perfectly clear.

I wasn’t going to sleep with him.

No matter how delicious he looked.

Or how nice he smelled.

Or the fact that he brought a bag containing all of the ingredients needed to make Lemon Drops, my favorite cocktail.

“What’s this for?” I asked suspiciously. Was he planning to get me drunk so he could have sex with me? Was this his dastardly plan? If so, I saw right through it. And a horny, masochistic part of me approved.