Hi everyone! Hope you're all having a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious summer!

To celebrate and make this party extra special, here is the EXCLUSIVE first chapter to my new story, Locker Room Talk. The prologue and description are now available on my profile ☺

I also have GIVEAWAYS! I wrote the story "No Capes" which is about Superheroes and is *super* (ha) fun, so I came up with some No Capes-themed surprises for y'all. If you RT or Regram my post about this on Twitter or Instagram, you'll be entered into the winnings! (And so so so sorry, but due to mailing restrictions this is only open to U.S residents :( )

You can also find the completed No Capes on my profile.

Thanks for being you and being here and please enjoy!

Stay cool,

Joe Cool (A.K.A Elizabeth A. Seibert)

None of this would have happened if society weren't so goddamn addicted to coffee. But we are, and while that can't be helped, it led to what we to refer to as, "The Starbucks Incident." (Well, one of many incidents at Starbucks. That place is a magnet for drama.)

It happened when my roommate and I decided to splurge our internship money on delicious diabetes with ice: caramel frappuchios.

"I love seeing everyone come back from the summer," Jen commented as we stood in line. "It's like they're all deciding who they want to be this year. Brand new Sperry's? Aspiring frat guy. Traded the android for the iphone X? Recent investor in the S&P 500. Three-colored leggings with a matcha latte? Upping her social media game. Flannel shirt over a crop top? Holla for being too-cool-for-school."

"Jennifer Palmer," I replied, "Always up to par with the pigeon-holes."

"Kate Stone," Jen fired back at me, "Always ready with the driest sarcasm known to mankind."

"Human kind," I corrected her and Jen rolled her eyes. I gave the barista my order. "And I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"As am I," Jen slid her cat-eye sunglasses down her nose, peering over them movie star style. Jen was a communications major, which at any other school meant she'd be streamlined into either an advertising or entertainment agency. But at Cardinal, it was more likely that she'd become the next Press Secretary of the United States. Or a candidate for the Pulitzer prize.

Jen's favorite "game" was to make people think she was inferior to them. Or so she told me one Thursday night after several shots of whiskey. But it wasn't just a game she played. It was a weapon.

I followed her to the second floor (yep, two floors) of the café. The first floor was reserved for foot traffic that wanted to get in and get out, while the second floor was for people to make an afternoon out of it. Filled with plush armchairs, tables with wireless charging pads, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the square, this Starbucks was the destination for first Tinder dates and quality gossip.

"It's good to be back." I slouched into a sofa hidden in the corner of the room. "If I had to teach even one more SAT summer class I would've needed to update my Ritalin prescription."

Which, I could say, because my parents started unlawfully giving me Ritalin when I was taking SAT summer classes.

"That's what you get for your perfect score." Jen played with her straw. "It was just as boring here. My fellowship was 8 to 8, a.m to p.m, and most people on campus were here for some high school program." She said high school like it was decades beneath her, though it had only been three years ago.

"Uh-huh," I said as casually as possible, "That's not what I heard."

Jen's face turned the shade of Cardinal's sweatshirts. I laughed at the sudden shift in her energy. As experimental as Jen could be with her relationships, she was a master at keeping them secret and discrete until she either had her heartbroken, or it lasted for more than a month.

Unbeknownst to her, keeping relationships a secret was such a common human behavior that I'd even written about that as a topic for an Anthropology paper last year.

Granted, this one probably was different, because I doubted it was Jen who wanted it under the radar. My suspicion was confirmed as she leaned back and asked, struggling to keep a straight face "What did you hear?"

"Mike McCartney."

Jen's already red face flushed further. "I can neither confirm nor deny that I was---am" she corrected herself, "Maybe seriously seeing the most charming senior in Triple T... And the L-word may have been used."

"It's serious?" My mouth fell open. The Triple T, or The Thirsty Thursdays (I know) were the most popular guys on campus. Not popular in that lacrosse-guy-does-cocaine way, but rather the fun-loving, smart, articulate, everyone's addicted to hanging out with them way.

The Ts had dated a high percentage of the campus, though never seriously, and in a way that somehow made them more popular. (Thus the endearing gang name, as their version of thirsty had nothing to do with dehydration).

I whole-heartedly understood why girls were attracted to them. Between their athleticism, ability to do math, and gentlemanly decorum, it made sense. But something about them made me question the whole thing: their gang name wasn't funny, because it was true.

Mike McCartney was the most infamous of the Thirsty Thursdays due to his serial, simultaneous romances. Naturally the rumor mill was in a frenzy that he might actually be dating.

I raised my drink towards Jen. "Well, Mazel-Tov."

Jen air-clinked her frappuccino. Then her beam brightened even more. "Omg give me your phone."

I dug my phone out of my well-organized backpack, another unnecessary result of the unnecessary Ritalin. "Why...?" She grabbed it from my hands before I got an answer.

"So we can double, duh." Her fingers flew across my touchpad.

"Jen, no," I protested. I jumped from my cushion on before she could do any major damage. Jen had done this a few times before, when she found a guy she really liked. Because if she could only be happy in a relationship, then of course it was her god-given duty to end the single-hood that perpetually plagued me.

Jen laughed, "All the Ts are on Tinder." Because of course they were.

"I'm not dating anyone from the Thirsty Thursdays," I told her as she ferociously started swiping, "also we have to talk about that name," I said to make her think for a second. "Jen, stop."

"No, no, no, no..." she muttered, as if in her own little swiping world, "ah. Here's one." She held the phone up to my face. "Antoine's not that bad. He's just part of the group because they're friends, not because of his rep." She opened his bio. "He likes soccer... you like soccer! And he's from Brazil! A foreigner." She gave me her best seductive look.

"Jen, stop." I said again, but more lightly. Jen was already acting happier than I'd seen her all of last year.

"Oh." Her face fell. "I think this is the one Mike told me was into COD, actually."

"What's COD" I leaned closer to see what she saw.

"Call of Duty," Jen explained, swiping no to Antoine, although I didn't know what that was or why that disqualified him.

"Oh wait, here's another one," she said, "Wow they must be really close to us, distance-wise." She craned her neck about the cafe like she was trying to find Waldo in Disney World during peak summer vacation, but was being blocked by a bunch of slow walkers.

To be fair, the Starbucks had filled up. A few graduate students sat with their laptops, and undergrads tricked in as they returned for the fall semester. But none of the Ts.

So far.

Defeated, she turned back to my phone. "Let's see...What do you think of Hale? He doesn't really hook up either, just gets lumped in with the rest of them because apparently they all play soccer." She showed me a picture of a tall, soccer-player with messy brown hair. He looked kind of like a cross between Adam Levine and David Beckham.

I bit my lip in deliberation, realizing he was kinda actually pulling it off.

"Says Mike," I corrected her. Because what else would he tell her about his best friends.

Without checking his bio, Jen swiped yes to Hale.

"Noooo" I objected, "I wanted to see it."

"Now we wait to see if he likes you too," she said without giving me any more information about the guy. Not that I'd be able to learn that much about Hale through his Tinder bio, but I would at least get a snapshot of his Spotify playlist. And I was not above judging him for his music tastes.

I watched her turn on my notifications so we'd know the second he swiped yes, if he swiped yes, on me. "Jesus Kate," she scrolled through my photos, "How are you still single? These. Are. Hot."

"Jesus Jen," I laughed and retreated to my sofa, stretching my legs onto the coffee-stained ottoman between us. I mostly tuned her out as she commented on my profile. While I barely used the app for dating, it had come in handy for my Anthropology term papers. So to gather enough research, my profile was, to say the least, ballin.

"Ummmmm..."

My focus went back to Jen. I picked up the impending distress in her voice, my stomach sinking before I even knew what it was for.

I followed her gaze. In my peripheral vision, Jen begin to pout. Her ultimate confused expression.

"...What is Mike doing here?"

But the question she'd really asked was, what is Mike doing here, flashing his dimples, with his hand pressed firmly to the small of a petite blonde's back?

"Ummmmmm..." I said, because I had some guesses, though was still at a loss of how to explain it to her or even myself.

"The fuck." Jen turned back to her phone and clicked through it. "He told me he was with his parents today." She held it up to her ear.

This would, of course, be Mike's first indication that he was in trouble—no one calls for anything else anymore.

I watched Mike continue to saunter across the café, and glance down as his phone lit up in his hand. I watched him swipe on it to decline the call. I watched him look about the café, and spot us. I watched him take a seat with the blonde anyway.

"The fuck," it was my turn to say. While I had nail polish that lasted longer than Jen's relationships, her heartbreak always transmuted onto me. My mom had always said that was what made my documentaries "for fun" so compelling. In a world where lying, winning, and selfishness are normalized, empathizing with the losers is a rare thing to see onscreen.

Jen had been through this enough times (which shouldn't be a sentence in the English language, but tragically it is), that she was ready to handle...Whatever it was that was happening.

For all we knew this girl was his sister.

But then why decline the phone call?

Sigh.

"Hey," Jen shouted across the café, since with the tone she used, 'hey, Asshole' wasn't necessary.

Mike looked at us again with not nearly enough confusion. He muttered something to the girl and headed our way. Jen stared him down as he did. I focused on my cuticles.

As much as mainstream media these days would have you believe, women aren't as stupid and dramatic as we are made out to be. Women aren't stupid because in these situations, we do know something fishy's happening, though sometimes it's easier to pretend otherwise. And women act "dramatically," in ways such as bringing up things they have issues with, because frankly we are tired of this shit.

"So how are your parents?" Jen asked when he reached us.

"Hey," said Mike, "I wanted to talk to you, actually."

It wasn't that Michael McCartney was even that attractive. Sure, you could tell he worked out, and yes, he was always at the top of his accounting classes, and he would give anyone on campus the time of day. Which are all nice things, don't get me wrong, but he didn't have the x-factor that the other Ts. had.

I think it was that he was so theoretically attainable, yet practically not, that made girls want to be the one to pin him down.

Jen waited for him to speak first.

He looked at her. Then at me. And then began to rub the back of his neck. "So... What's up?" He said.

Jen raised both of her eyebrows. I studied my cuticles like they were on a midterm.

"Why is the onus on me to get you to explain why you're on an apparent date with another girl?"

I winced as she gave away her opportunity to salvage anything if he wasn't actually on a date. Nonetheless, she'd gone with her gut. Double or nothing.

Mike let out the kind of sigh that puffed up his cheeks, chipmunk style. "I mean..." he trailed off without an explanation.

Jen stayed silent, processing the reality of his lack of answer. Soaking in the tragedy of correctly reading the situation.

"You. Said. We were. Exclusive," Jen managed, choking back the beginnings of tears. Or swears.

For a moment, Mike's eyes softened. "I said I wasn't seeing anyone else." His voice was even keeled, like he was mediating just a small misunderstanding, "It's not..." he trailed off, deciding if he wanted to finish putting the nails into the coffin. "...The same thing."

To anyone else, Jen would have seemed extremely composed in this given situation. But having her basically be my replacement sister for the last three years, I recognized the array of feelings she subtly expressed.

Because really, what are your options in that situation? From where I sat she could:

1. GTFO

2. Get on a pedestal and give him the oh-no-you-didn't speech of the century

3. Shout to all of Starbucks that his sexual performance was nothing to write home about

4. Excuse his behavior and allow him to continue on his merry way

She went with a fifth option, which was to break up freestyle.

Her face hardening, Jen stared at Mike with a disdain that would have made even Cersei Lannister squirm. She didn't say a word, though I could tell she wanted to. She just stared at him like she was imagining his body combusting into flames so she could dance in the ashes.

I got chills.

Mike swallowed and looked at me. I just cocked an eyebrow and copied Jen's scare tactic. I had to assume Mike was wearing adult underwear underneath his salmon shorts, because I would have absolutely peed my pants.

"Okay," he said. He was met with Jen's immovable reaction. "Bye." He stepped back and looked at Jen one last time, and then retreated back to his future notch in the bedpost.

Jen threw her face in her hands, sighing heavily.

She took a few deep breaths and lifted her head. "Getting dumped in a Starbucks," she exhaled, "Gotta say that's a new one."

"Right," I said, offering her a napkin, "But also, like, what?"

"That's going to be the title of my memoir," She said, gathering her things. She stood up to leave and I followed her. Be cool, be cool, be cool, I begged in my head as we passed Mike's table.

Simultaneously, my phone dinged, making my pocket vibrate. I had a new Tinder match.

"Sorry I made you do that." Jen nodded towards my phone.

"Nah dog," I said in an awkward-easy-the-tension-dad way, "Iz cool."

"The worst part," Jen said when stepped out of the café and embraced the crowded sidewalk of downtown Boston, "Was that he made me feel like I was picking a fight out of thin air. Like somehow I was overreacting."

I could have just agreed with her that what had just happened sucked, but that boys are idiots and she just simply deserved better.

But what about the blonde that Mike was with, didn't she deserve better too?

My phone vibrated again. I looked at the screen to see that apparently, Hale had messaged me. Hale, who had never spoken to me in my life, not even after we'd sat just a row away from each other in intermediate microeconomics, had sent the first message. Jen stopped talking and looked at me quizzically.

"Got a new insta follower," I said.

"Nice." She continued on her rant about... something.

To this day, I'm still not sure why I chose not to tell Jen about a seemingly insignificant Tinder message. Maybe because it was a sensitive topic. Even though it wasn't really. I could have just ignored it and carried on.

The average person checks her phone 122 times a day. So Jen, naturally, didn't notice when I pretended to, 'while I was on the gram,' also look at how my story was doing.

I sucked in a breath, the opposite of what I'd expected to happen.

Hey Kate, do people often confuse you with Kate Middleton? Hale had written. I did in econ all last year.

I mean.

Damn.