Oh. Wow. It stings like a thousand wasps getting me all at once. “I see.”
“No, you don’t. Guys like Bryant don’t do girls like you.”
Fuck. That hurts. One tear leaks out, but I don’t give a shit. “Stop.” I hold up my hand again. “That’s enough.” Sniffling, I turn away from her.
“Quinn, wait. I didn’t—”
I ignore her and walk out the door. I’ve got to process this. I need space from the one person I thought I could count on.
Chapter Six
Ineeded and wanted space, but maybe not for this long. It’s been almost a week since our fight, and Tayler hasn’t tried to call me once. Nope. No voice mails, not a single text. I haven’t contacted her either, because I know Tayler Sorenson, and if I call now, she’ll want to rehash everything that we argued about. All of it. And I don’t want to hear how I’m not the kind of girl guys likethatway. I mean, I already knew that. I’ve heard it pretty much all my life thanks to my brothers. Heck, even my dad calls me “my chunky monkey.” Ugh. Such a terrible nickname. I don’t have the heart to say anything, because for him, it’s not offensive. My mom’s favorite endearment is “pleasantly plump” because she and I have the same body type. She obviously doesn’t have the negative self-image that I do. She’s lucky. But those parental expressions are nice compared to some of the things I’ve heard in the past. My older brothers were particularly cruel growing up, calling me “thunder thighs” and other mean things.
Listen, I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I swear. I’m just trying to make my point. I know I’m no man’s ideal woman. But I’ve read enough books and watched enough reality television to believe there’s someone for everyone. Mine may not be Bryant, I get that. I’m not naïve. But if I don’t put myself out there, how will I ever know for sure? She knows me better than anyone. I’ve had crushes before, and she knows I get over them, eventually. So why is Tayler making a point aboutthisguy now?
It’s been nearly a week since our fight at the Hub. Since then, I decided I was going to do something I’ve never done when it comes to Tayler: I’m going to wait her out. It’s going to have to beherwho contactsme. And when she does, it’d better start off with an apology. In the meantime, I’ve been doing my thing: going to class, studying, working up the courage to apply for jobs, and I’ve decided to hang out with my new roommates. Tonight, we’re going out for Thirsty Thursday. It’s what we college students call the night we all go out and drink too much. It’s also the night bars such as Cy’s Roost have drink specials like two-dollar pitchers of crappy beer. I know, hangovers make Friday classes almost unbearable, but I need to get to know my roommates, and having a drink—or three—with them is one way to do it.
Speaking of which, I look at my clock. I’ve only got thirty minutes before they’re off to the bar. I jump off my bed and search my little closet for something decent to wear. Generally I wear oversized tees and either jeans or leggings. Scanning my closet, I don’t see anything that inspires me, so I search for my black V-neck tee and black jeggings. For those of you who haven’t heard of those, they’re jeans that stretch like leggings. The best of both worlds.
Crawling around on my floor, I find my black Converse sneakers underneath my bed along with some pretty scary-looking dust bunnies. Scary because I think I just saw one skitter away from my hand.Shiver.After sliding on my shoes, I pick up my small crossbody purse that’s just large enough to hold my cell phone, a debit card, and some cash. I stop in my tracks when I catch a glimpse of my face in my mirror. “Shit.” I didn’t do a thing with my hair or makeup. Instead of that, I took forty minutes to paint my nails. I did the Converse sneaker nails. So cute.
Peeking at the clock, I see I’ve got a few minutes to spare, so I pull out the tie in my hair, brush it, and put it back up into a knot on top of my head. Looking at my little bit of makeup, I swipe some mascara on my lashes and a soft pink lip gloss on my mouth. Looking in the mirror one last time, I shrug. “As good as it’s ever going to get.”
Upstairs, I meet my roommates hovering near the front door. Correction, my roommates and Kara. Great.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” says guess who.
“Knock it off, Kara,” snaps Patsy. Looking at me, she smiles. “You look good. I like the all-black ensemble.” Except she pronounces “ensemble” like she’s French. It makes me laugh.
One by one, the girls start to make their way out the door. As we move, I hear Kara muttering something to Susanna. “She could have at least done her hair.”
“Shhh,” says Susanna. “Leave her alone.”
“Why?”
“Just… she’s nice.”
“Fuck nice. She’s—”
“Enough!” shouts Robbi. “Stop being a bitch to her, Kara, or you can go home.”
“Yeah,” Kat agrees. “If you can’t be nice for once, go home.”
“Fuck you,” mumbles Kara.
But, sadly, she doesn’t leave.
* * *
“Who’sturn is it to buy the next pitcher?” asks a drunk Robbi.
“Mine.” Sliding out of our big booth, I hold up two fingers. “Two?”
“Two!” shouts Susanna. “And get some fries.”
I shake my head. Cy’s serves bar food most days, but I know for sure they aren’t serving food tonight. They never do when they know the bar is going to be wall-to-wall people.
“They don’t serve food when it’s like this.” I point to the sea of people.
