“You don’t ever run?” he asks curiously.
It’s my turn to lift an eyebrow. “Does it look like I’m a runner?” He opens his mouth to respond, but I put up a hand. “Please don’t answer that. That was a rhetorical question. Besides, why would I run when we have things like cars to get us from one place to another.”
He smirks. “You know, some people run to exercise or just for fun.”
“Yes, I know. We live in a world of crazies, but I don’t have to be one.”
He laughs low in his chest, and I can feel it through my entire body. “So, you’re saying I’m crazy?”
I shrug. “Your words.”
“Have you ever tried it? Maybe you’d like it?”
I give him a look. “Have I tried running? Seriously? I had to run all the time in P. E.; that’s how I know I hate it. Think back to your high school days. Do you remember the girls that you passed when you were running laps in P. E.? The ones that looked like they were going to keel over and pass out at any moment? That was me. Always me.”
“How do you know I passed other runners? Maybe I was a slow runner in high school?”
“And maybe I’m the Easter bunny,” I say without skipping a beat.
Quint turns around. “You are?”
Slater chuckles again. “Okay. So, you don't like running. Whatdoyou like?”
I don’t have to think about that one. “Sports, eating, watching movies, snacks, popcorn, history, coffee,” I pause. “I think that’s about it. Oh, and those red and yellow licorice.”
“You do realize most of those things were food, right?”
I nod confidently. “I do, and I stand by my answer one hundred percent.”
He shakes his head, but there’s a grin on his face. My heart beats faster at the sight of that grin; I think it’s the first time I’ve seen it. “What are red and yellow licorice?” he surprises me by asking.
“You don’t know what they are?” I ask in mock horror.
“Should I?”
“Yes. Everyone should know about them,” I respond.
“So, what are they?”
“They’re red and yellow licorice.”
He blinks. “You literally just repeated yourself.”
“Well, that’s what they are. They’re red and yellow licorice.”
“They have a sour filling on the insides,” Evie says from the front seat.
I pull up a picture of them from Google. “These.” I show him my phone.
“Twizzlers are nasty,” he says in response.
“Yes,” I agree. “The red ones are, but these aren’t.”
“But there are red ones in the pack,” he so helpfully points out.
“Yes, but they’re not the same as other red licorice. They’re different.” I wave him off. “You just have to try them.”
“I’m not really into sour stuff.”
