Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
My shoulders give a shrug. “Tomayto, tomahto.”
“Shut up!” But she’s giggling when she says it.
“Fine, I won’t make fun of you anymore.”
“Good, because I hate it.”
“Why do you get made fun of?” I’m teasing, but the silence that follows is enough to answer my question, and my brows furrow. “Who makes fun of you?” Teddy is the sweetest fucking girl I’ve met at this school—I mean, I’ve only known her for all of three seconds, but I doubt she’d intentionally hurt anyone’s feelings. “Let me guess—your roommate and those other friends of yours.”
More silence. “No. It’s not my other friends.”
“So just your bitchy roommate.”
“Could you not call her tha—look, she’s not bitchy, okay? She’s just…” A diminutive shrug of her delicate shoulders.
“Do not—do not tell me she’s misunderstood.”
“She is who she is, I guess.”
“And what is that?” A cock-blocker.
Jock chaser?
Selfish?
“We’ve always been opposites. Friends don’t have to match. Friendships aren’t perfect—you should know that.”
“No, but guys are different. We don’t have feelings, and if one of my friends treated me like shit, he wouldn’t be my friend anymore.”
Teddy rolls her eyes so far back, they’re likely to get stuck in the back of her head. “Mariah doesn’t treat me like shit.”
Mariah.
Even the name sounds like a Mean Girl name.
Mariah: almost rhymes with piranha.
“Doesn’t treat you like shit, you say? This from the girl sitting in some strange guy’s living room, miles from campus, on God knows what street in the middle of the night because you couldn’t go home, because she is banging some dude in your one-bedroom room apartment and she doesn’t give a shit that you’re not home safe.”
Damn. That came out sounding way harsh, didn’t it?
Still, it’s the fucking truth.
“I-I…” Teddy stutters, and for a brief moment, I feel terrible.
Meh, kind of.
Fine, not really. I don’t know her, I don’t know her roommate—but I do know she needs to buck up and grow a pair of balls.
“Face it, Teddy, you need lessons on how to be a bigger bitch.”
“Are you insane? The last thing I want to do is become a bitch on purpose.”
“A badass then.”
“A badass?” Her brows are up in her hairline. “Even that’s a stretch for me.”
“Fine. You need to grow a backbone.”
“I have one! It’s just…I’d rather choose what battles I want to fight.”
“And how many fights have you ever been in?”
“None?”
“Arguments?”
“Er…”
“How many times has your good buddy Mariah swept in and ‘stolen’ a guy you’re talking to?” I use air quotes, and Teddy flinches.
“I don’t know.”
“More than one but less than five?” Jesus, why do I keep pushing this?
She shrugs.
“More than five but less than ten?”
“Kip! Who cares? If a guy doesn’t like me for me and lets a girl like Mariah swoop in and ‘steal’ him, I don’t want him anyway!” Her voice is raised and she uses air quotes too, imitating me before crossing her arms over her chest defensively.
“If he doesn’t like you for you? Is that the kind of bullshit girls tell themselves when they get rejected?”
From across the room, I see her mouth fall open.
Oops. Was it something I said? It looks like I kicked her puppy.
“So that’s a yes.”
Her mouth sets into a thin line, lips pursed.
“Teddy, there are rules, you know, and your friend breaks almost all of them.”
“What rules?”
“Girl code and shit. I don’t know—you should know more about this than I do. How to be a wingman and not a cock-blocker, how to date an athlete—shit like that.”
“Come on, now you’re just making stuff up.”
“Rule number two: care less about what people think and more about doing what makes you happy.”
“That’s not a rule—that’s an inspirational quote. Also, what was the first rule?”
“Don’t be a pussy.” I can tell she’s barely containing her impatience and cock my head to one side. “Why are you being like this?”
Her answer is to laugh again. “Because you’re kind of a weirdo.”
I wonder if she’d call me a weirdo—to my face—if my face wasn’t covered with enough hair to keep me warm through a blizzard on a mountaintop. What would she say if she knew I was so ridiculously good-looking beneath this beard that modeling agencies would be knocking on my door wanting to blast my picture through every major sports magazine?
But that’s just my humble opinion.
“I’m serious, Teddy—you’re not going to find a boyfriend if you keep doing the shit you’re doing at house parties.”
“Who said anything about me wanting a boyfriend?”
“So you don’t want one?”
“I mean…” She falters so long I know what her answer is going to be. “Yes, but there’s no rush.”
“Well that’s a good, because it’s certainly going to take you fucking forever to find one at the rate you’re going.”
I can’t tell in this light, but I swear she draws back. “Kip, that’s a shitty thing to say.”
“But true,” I persist, trying to put what I’m about to say next delicately. Or not. “You’re not going to get a boyfriend playing bartender at the keg every weekend or holding your friend’s beer while she’s upstairs fucking random dudes.”