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“Deal, bitch.”
I DRAG MY FRIES THROUGH the mound of ketchup and shove them into my mouth. It takes me forever to chew considering my throat refuses to swallow. The usually salty goodness tastes like rat poison on my tongue. I force the fries down and shove a few more in.
I’m not about to waste free food.
Since I won, I chose the place. Marty’s Diner, the best hole-in-the-wall restaurant you’ll find in North Carolina. Grease is permanently etched into every surface in this place, including the cracked red booths and tables decorated with random magazine clippings. Normally the smell soothes me, but right now the chemistry between my stomach contents and the fumes of grease are causing an epic cat fight in the pit of my stomach. My addled brain wanders, conjuring up an actual fighting pit with a ball of fumes and a green acidic blob with arms slapping each other like two grade schoolgirls.
“So, River, who’s going to be your plus one to the party?” Amelia asks around her food, bringing my attention away from my alcohol-induced thoughts. Pretty sure I’m still drunk.
She grimaces as she chews, turns a little green, and has to choke her food down. I look away before her nausea makes my own worse. I’m a sympathy-puker.
I shrug my shoulders noncommittally. I don’t even want to go, to be honest. I’m supposed to meet my mom that day. Not that that’s a good reason to miss the party. I’d rather make a Venn Diagram of the taste of dead skunk and my morning breath than meet with Barbie.
“Maybe ask Ryan?” she hedges. My eyes whip to her, turning from tarnished yellow to molten gold. I know because Amelia has graciously called me out on it endlessly. Ryan brings that reaction out of me without my permission, and it’s got to be the most annoying thing to date.
“You know he’s dating Alison,” I grumble. I hate that she can see I’m interested in him. Being interested in the male species sucks when they’ve done nothing but make me want to hate them. Alas, here I am, getting wet for a taken man. A man I always think I’m doing a stellar job at hiding my interest in, but really, I might as well get in a costume, and dance around like the poor souls you see on the side of the road, while waving a sign that points directly to my vagina. Open for business.
The man from last night creeps into my thoughts, but I push him from my mind before I become obsessed with a faceless stranger.
Amelia waves an unconcerned hand in the air, shooting me an exasperated look.
“They broke up last weekend,” she says airily.
The fries I’m gripping freeze halfway to my mouth, the ketchup dripping off and into my lap.
“They broke up?” I echo nonchalantly, turning my attention to the ketchup on my already stained sweatpants in hopes that it’ll hide my piqued interest. I’m hiding from her and she knows it. In all honestly, I’m floored. Ryan and his girlfriend were high school sweethearts. They’ve been together forever. I’m pretty sure they were even engaged.
“Yep,” she chirps, the smirk on her face falling flat due to her having to wo
rk hard not to vomit everywhere.
Again.
“What happened?” I ask, attempting to sound casual. Fuck, I failed. I don’t appear as unflappable as I hoped. I don’t want to flap, damn it.
She shrugs a shoulder. “Not sure,” she answers. “All I know is a horde of horny bitches are already flocking around him everywhere he goes. And Cindy said there was a frat party last night and he was already making out with another girl while Alison was in the same room.”
My eyes widen into saucers. Fuck trying to appear cool, I don’t care anymore. “Seriously? Did she get upset?”
Amelia shakes her head slowly, a weird look passing over her face. “That’s the strange thing. Cindy said she looked as if she couldn’t care less.”
Hope flutters in my chest. Maybe that means I won’t have to deal with a crazy ex if I ever take my shot with him. Forget the fact that he hasn’t looked twice at me, that can easily be changed. Guys like Ryan are easy to ensnare if you know how to set the trap.
With that thought in the back of my mind, I change the subject onto Amelia’s art project—I was never the gossiping type. Anyway, I’m genuinely interested in her art. She paints like Michelangelo and damn well knows it.
Now only if I can find my own damn hobby.
“YOU’RE LATE,” BARBIE SNARLS, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the corner of her crusted mouth. I can only imagine what the fuck kind of dirty substance she has wrapped around her lips—something tasty enough to let crust, I guess.
I shrug a shoulder, unconcerned with her bitching.
“What are you going to do about it?” I ask dryly. I can’t remember the last time my mother has evoked any real emotion in me besides irritation and wanting her to die already.
She calls me a few choice names—and I dutifully ignore her. Her lips tighten around the cigarette and she inhales until the cigarette is nearly depleted.
Good. Maybe she’ll die faster.
“I should’ve aborted you,” she mutters, her beady little eyes glaring holes into me.
