other than the girl who’s currently helping herself to one of my ribs.
I let her have the rib, but pull my cornbread closer, because it’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever tasted, and that includes dishes from every fancy restaurant in New York you’ve ever heard of.
“My story?” I ask warily.
She waves her rib in my direction. “Well, you’re not from around here. You’re all Yank. Boston?”
“New York. Boston accents are a whole different thing.”
She shrugs. “Sounds the same to us.”
I lean forward a little. “Well, having driven through all of the South on my way here, I can say that you Texans sound an awful lot like the folks in Atlanta, and sort of like all of Louisiana, and you Texans sound just like—”
“Stop!” she shrieks in her Texan accent, which is very distinct, by the way. “You wound me. And what do you mean, on your way here? You drove to Texas? From New York? Just for kicks?”
I take a sip of beer and look at my plate.
Chloe leans back against her seat, and though she doesn’t rub her stomach, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she patted her belly in a satisfied manner. She has the look of a well-satiated woman.
“Let me know when you’re over it,” she says.
“Over what?” I ask, distracted by the way her shirt strains across her chest. Jesus, am I actually checking her out?
Yes. Yes, I am.
“Your stoic phase,” she says. “You move in and out of these waves of mute alpha and caustic charmer. I can work with the sarcastic version, but the cranky mute is no good to me.”
I take a bite of cornbread and chew slowly, not saying a word.
Chloe huffs. “How about you just give me the TV Guide version?”
“The what?”
“You know, like sum up your life thus far in a sentence. Example: Mine would be ‘Fat yet clever girl patiently waits for the guy of her dreams to realize that he’d rather have a lifetime of laughter and conversation than a lifetime of great sex with a twig who doesn’t appreciate him. ’”
“You’re not fat,” I say automatically. And I’m pretty sure she’d be great at sex if the way she’s licking the BBQ sauce off her finger is any indication, but I’m not going there. Not even in my head.
She ignores me. “Okay, so your turn. I’ll give you a prompt. How about: ‘Sexy bad boy from wrong side of the tracks flees rough life in the Bronx to find himself in small-town Texas’?”
Chloe snags a corner of my cornbread at the end of her pitch. “How’d I do?”
Her assessment is so completely off base I almost laugh. And she forgot the most important part: She made it seem like it was about where I was fleeing to, when really it’s what I’m fleeing from .
Who I’m fleeing from.
“Pretty close,” I say, tilting the beer bottle back.
“Well,” she says, slurping the rest of her soda through her straw. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but since I’m a big nerd at heart—”
“Just at heart? Not on the outside, too?” I interrupt.
She makes a face. “ Anyway . . . have you thought about going to college? I mean, assuming you don’t want to be a bartender and personal trainer forever, of course. But if you do, that’s totally fine—”
“I went to college.”
That shuts her up.
“Oh! Cool. Did you, um . . . finish?”
“Yup.” In three years, no less, but I don’t tell her that.
Ethan, Olivia, and I had always been the golden children of Manhattan. Kids of the richest parents, good students, good athletes, all with easy admittance to NYU—together, because that’s how we’d done everything.
But of the three of us, only two graduated (Olivia dropped out before senior year thanks to yours truly), and only Ethan walked across the stage at graduation.
Me? I took the coward’s route. After the shit went down at the end of junior year, I knew there’d be no going back to the way things were. I knew that Ethan and I couldn’t go back to being roommates, and Olivia and I couldn’t go
I let her have the rib, but pull my cornbread closer, because it’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever tasted, and that includes dishes from every fancy restaurant in New York you’ve ever heard of.
“My story?” I ask warily.
She waves her rib in my direction. “Well, you’re not from around here. You’re all Yank. Boston?”
“New York. Boston accents are a whole different thing.”
She shrugs. “Sounds the same to us.”
I lean forward a little. “Well, having driven through all of the South on my way here, I can say that you Texans sound an awful lot like the folks in Atlanta, and sort of like all of Louisiana, and you Texans sound just like—”
“Stop!” she shrieks in her Texan accent, which is very distinct, by the way. “You wound me. And what do you mean, on your way here? You drove to Texas? From New York? Just for kicks?”
I take a sip of beer and look at my plate.
Chloe leans back against her seat, and though she doesn’t rub her stomach, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she patted her belly in a satisfied manner. She has the look of a well-satiated woman.
“Let me know when you’re over it,” she says.
“Over what?” I ask, distracted by the way her shirt strains across her chest. Jesus, am I actually checking her out?
Yes. Yes, I am.
“Your stoic phase,” she says. “You move in and out of these waves of mute alpha and caustic charmer. I can work with the sarcastic version, but the cranky mute is no good to me.”
I take a bite of cornbread and chew slowly, not saying a word.
Chloe huffs. “How about you just give me the TV Guide version?”
“The what?”
“You know, like sum up your life thus far in a sentence. Example: Mine would be ‘Fat yet clever girl patiently waits for the guy of her dreams to realize that he’d rather have a lifetime of laughter and conversation than a lifetime of great sex with a twig who doesn’t appreciate him. ’”
“You’re not fat,” I say automatically. And I’m pretty sure she’d be great at sex if the way she’s licking the BBQ sauce off her finger is any indication, but I’m not going there. Not even in my head.
She ignores me. “Okay, so your turn. I’ll give you a prompt. How about: ‘Sexy bad boy from wrong side of the tracks flees rough life in the Bronx to find himself in small-town Texas’?”
Chloe snags a corner of my cornbread at the end of her pitch. “How’d I do?”
Her assessment is so completely off base I almost laugh. And she forgot the most important part: She made it seem like it was about where I was fleeing to, when really it’s what I’m fleeing from .
Who I’m fleeing from.
“Pretty close,” I say, tilting the beer bottle back.
“Well,” she says, slurping the rest of her soda through her straw. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but since I’m a big nerd at heart—”
“Just at heart? Not on the outside, too?” I interrupt.
She makes a face. “ Anyway . . . have you thought about going to college? I mean, assuming you don’t want to be a bartender and personal trainer forever, of course. But if you do, that’s totally fine—”
“I went to college.”
That shuts her up.
“Oh! Cool. Did you, um . . . finish?”
“Yup.” In three years, no less, but I don’t tell her that.
Ethan, Olivia, and I had always been the golden children of Manhattan. Kids of the richest parents, good students, good athletes, all with easy admittance to NYU—together, because that’s how we’d done everything.
But of the three of us, only two graduated (Olivia dropped out before senior year thanks to yours truly), and only Ethan walked across the stage at graduation.
Me? I took the coward’s route. After the shit went down at the end of junior year, I knew there’d be no going back to the way things were. I knew that Ethan and I couldn’t go back to being roommates, and Olivia and I couldn’t go
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