those straps can do their designated job, but then I remember that I got a near-boner from touching her arm. The last thing I need right now is to see her boobs.
Even if I am becoming embarrassingly obsessed with them.
I push the thought away.
“So why’d you stick around, then?” I ask, opening the door and ushering her into the pub.
“What?”
“Why not go home for the summer? Or is the class that cool?”
“I’m excited about the class.”
She says it with all of the enthusiasm of a DMV employee, and I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Excited enough to put up with this shitty-ass weather? Excited enough to be living on your cheating ex’s couch?”
Stephanie rolls her shoulders and pinches her lips together in the universal girl language for I don’t wanna talk about it .
The place is mostly empty this early, and we find a table in the corner where we can spread out all of her boring notes, should it come to that.
Except, oddly, I’m finding I don’t really care about the project at the moment. Maybe it’s just that misery loves company or something, because I find myself continuing our conversation.
“So where’s home?” I ask.
She buries her face in the menu, and for a second I think she’s not going to answer. Finally she says, “I’m from Rhode Island.”
Progress . Although I don’t know why I care. “What’s that like in the summer? Better than here?”
Another beat of silence. “It’s been a few years.”
I bat the menu out of her hands so I can see her face. A little cavemanlike of me, perhaps, but it’s not like she’s facing hard menu choices. It’s nachos or chicken wings. “You haven’t been home in a few years ?”
“I guess it’s not technically home. Not anymore.”
I’ve had more rewarding conversations with a doorknob, but I press on anyway. “So home would be …?”
She lets out a huff. “My dad lives in North Carolina now.”
“So … North Carolina’s your home.”
“No.”
“ Ah, ” I say. I let the word carry a good deal of meaning. As though I know what she means by it. And, strangely enough, I think I might. Maybe the whole home-is-not-actually-home thing is part of what’s made her so grumpy.
“What are you, a psych major now?” she snaps.
“Nope. Just seen all the classic teen movies. Parent-related angst is a given,” I say, standing to go fetch us a couple of beers and something to eat.
“Well, those are apparently the only movies you’ve seen!” she calls after me.
Since my back is to her, I don’t have to bother hiding my smile. Everything about Stephanie Kendrick should be a total boner killer, but I kind of like it.
Or when you need a reminder that perhaps somebody else’s life sucks worse than yours and you should stop feeling sorry for yourself .
“What’s up, Price?” the bartender says as we do one of those elaborate handshakes that Ihope to God we’ll grow out of sooner rather than later. “Who’s your new girl?”
“Not my girl,” I say, pulling out my wallet and removing a few bills. “School partner.”
Steven’s eyes roam back to Stephanie and linger. “Not your type, but I’d hit it.”
My fingers tense briefly and I give him a stiff smile. I hate guys like this. “How about two Brooklyn lagers and some nachos?”
“You want chicken on the nachos?” he asks.
“Nah,” I say. I still haven’t figured out if Stephanie’s a vegetarian, and I don’t want to risk a lecture about animal cruelty along with another lecture about Clark Gable and those two Hepburn chicks.
“I’ll bring the food over,” Steven says, pushing two beers across the bar at me. His eyes are still locked on Stephanie.
“Yeah, I bet you will,” I mutter, heading back to Stephanie, who’s gone and brought out her godforsaken notebook again.
I try to listen as she explains something about the three-act structure of a screenplay, I really do. But while I had my back turned, she apparently put something shiny on her
Even if I am becoming embarrassingly obsessed with them.
I push the thought away.
“So why’d you stick around, then?” I ask, opening the door and ushering her into the pub.
“What?”
“Why not go home for the summer? Or is the class that cool?”
“I’m excited about the class.”
She says it with all of the enthusiasm of a DMV employee, and I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Excited enough to put up with this shitty-ass weather? Excited enough to be living on your cheating ex’s couch?”
Stephanie rolls her shoulders and pinches her lips together in the universal girl language for I don’t wanna talk about it .
The place is mostly empty this early, and we find a table in the corner where we can spread out all of her boring notes, should it come to that.
Except, oddly, I’m finding I don’t really care about the project at the moment. Maybe it’s just that misery loves company or something, because I find myself continuing our conversation.
“So where’s home?” I ask.
She buries her face in the menu, and for a second I think she’s not going to answer. Finally she says, “I’m from Rhode Island.”
Progress . Although I don’t know why I care. “What’s that like in the summer? Better than here?”
Another beat of silence. “It’s been a few years.”
I bat the menu out of her hands so I can see her face. A little cavemanlike of me, perhaps, but it’s not like she’s facing hard menu choices. It’s nachos or chicken wings. “You haven’t been home in a few years ?”
“I guess it’s not technically home. Not anymore.”
I’ve had more rewarding conversations with a doorknob, but I press on anyway. “So home would be …?”
She lets out a huff. “My dad lives in North Carolina now.”
“So … North Carolina’s your home.”
“No.”
“ Ah, ” I say. I let the word carry a good deal of meaning. As though I know what she means by it. And, strangely enough, I think I might. Maybe the whole home-is-not-actually-home thing is part of what’s made her so grumpy.
“What are you, a psych major now?” she snaps.
“Nope. Just seen all the classic teen movies. Parent-related angst is a given,” I say, standing to go fetch us a couple of beers and something to eat.
“Well, those are apparently the only movies you’ve seen!” she calls after me.
Since my back is to her, I don’t have to bother hiding my smile. Everything about Stephanie Kendrick should be a total boner killer, but I kind of like it.
Or when you need a reminder that perhaps somebody else’s life sucks worse than yours and you should stop feeling sorry for yourself .
“What’s up, Price?” the bartender says as we do one of those elaborate handshakes that Ihope to God we’ll grow out of sooner rather than later. “Who’s your new girl?”
“Not my girl,” I say, pulling out my wallet and removing a few bills. “School partner.”
Steven’s eyes roam back to Stephanie and linger. “Not your type, but I’d hit it.”
My fingers tense briefly and I give him a stiff smile. I hate guys like this. “How about two Brooklyn lagers and some nachos?”
“You want chicken on the nachos?” he asks.
“Nah,” I say. I still haven’t figured out if Stephanie’s a vegetarian, and I don’t want to risk a lecture about animal cruelty along with another lecture about Clark Gable and those two Hepburn chicks.
“I’ll bring the food over,” Steven says, pushing two beers across the bar at me. His eyes are still locked on Stephanie.
“Yeah, I bet you will,” I mutter, heading back to Stephanie, who’s gone and brought out her godforsaken notebook again.
I try to listen as she explains something about the three-act structure of a screenplay, I really do. But while I had my back turned, she apparently put something shiny on her
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