Page 30 of Stanton Adore

I smile and nod nervously. I hardly taste my damn sushi. I just stare into space. Simon is oblivious, rambling on and on about crap, who cares, whatever. For ten minutes I listen to his constant jabbering. He is really starting to annoy me now. Just shut the fuck up, I’m trying to think here, I’m holding my temples. What an absolute bastard, I am boiling mad. How dare he be so rude to my verbal-diarrhea friend? I take out my phone and text the number I have for him, not even knowing if that is in fact still his number.

You’re an asshole

I wait and scowl. It probably isn’t even his number. I stole it off Mum’s phone about two years ago. Bloody Mum can’t even save a number right. My phone beeps a message.

No, you’re the asshole.

What! Is he kidding? How am I an asshole? How dare he?

Who the hell does he think he is? I text back.

You have got to be kidding.

I smile. There, that showed him, how dare he say I’m an asshole? I am definitely not an asshole. He is un-fucking-believable. My phone beeps with a message.

FUCK OFF

What the fuck? Red steam is shooting out of my ears. No guy, or anyone actually, has ever told me to fuck off, and especially not in capital letters in print. I am infuriated. I want to throw my new iPhone across the restaurant. I start to drum my fingers on the table, double-time. Simon is still oblivious to my rage, god, he really is docile.

“Come on, let’s go.” He smiles.

What shall I text back? I need the upper hand. I am tapping my front tooth with my fingernail while I think. Simon is right, he really is a prick. I sit in Simon’s car, silently looking out the window as I troll my brain for a good comeback. I’ve got nothing. Use your brain, Natasha, I’m sure there’s one in there somewhere. I just know at two tomorrow morning an awesome comeback is going to pop into my head, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have to text now, or it will look like I am thinking about my reply, even though I am. This is a total disaster. In the end I text the lamest reply in human history.

Gladly.

That night at Oscar’s, Bridget and Abbie laugh as they read the texts.

“How did it go from you’re an asshole to fuck off?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head as they continue to pass my phone to each other.

“And why does he think you’re an asshole?”

I slump on the table and put my face into my hands. “Probably because I am an asshole, a stupid-beyond-belief asshole.”

They laugh again. “He knows you better than you think.”

“Thanks a lot,” I sigh. “This isn’t funny, bitches.”

“Yes, it is.” They both huddle together and giggle. “It’s frigging hilarious.”

Wednesday at work drags. I’m still fuming. I have thought of nothing else since I saw him yesterday. Fuming is a lot more satisfying than pining. I’m just so off him.

After lunch I get a text from Bridget.

We are going out tonight. Spying on Jeremy, time to bust a move.

Great. I smile as I read the text. I need some NCIS action and it will take my mind off prickface. I text back.

Sounds good. Is Abbie coming?

She replies.

Of course, meet me at mine at seven.

We are standing together in a line in Bridget’s bedroom, looking at our reflection in the mirror. “We look like hookers.” I grimace.

“That’s the point,” she replies.