I hadn’t even been hoping forbeautifultoday. I’d just been hoping fornot covered in hives.
Had Cooper ever said anything that nice to me before?
But there was a rasp in Cooper’s voice. He meant it.
Then, before I could stop myself, I said, “You don’t think I look like Fozzie Bear?”
At that, Cooper squinted at me like I was equal parts adorable and ridiculous, tilted his head, and repeated—carefully—so I could really hear the question I’d just asked reflected back:
“I do not”—a pause—“think that you look”—another pause—“likeFozzie Bear.”
I didn’t appreciate the mockery. But it did make me feel better.
“You,” I said, just to get us back to normal, “look awful.”
“So you’ve mentioned.”
I reached up to tug on his beard, like it might be a vaudeville prop with an elastic strap. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s a beard,” Cooper said.
“I see that,” I said. “But why?”
A hint of a shrug. “Why not?”
“It looks like a pigeon built a nest on your face.”
At that, he broke into a big grin.
“A pigeon with a bad personality,” I added.
“Why do I love it when you insult me?” Cooper asked.
“Because the truth feels good.”
Cooper tilted his head again. “Does it?”
“And I’m not insulting you,” I said. “I’mhelpingyou.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“And what’s going on withthis?” I reached up and mussed his hair next. “Is this aman-bun?”
“It’s a ponytail,” Cooper corrected.
I shook my head. “What were you thinking?”
“I grew it out.”
“It’ssobad.”
“You don’t think I look kind of great?”
I sidestepped the question. Hedidlook kind of great. “That hair is a tragedy,” I declared. “Shakespeare could’ve written that hair.”
Cooper was still smiling. “You really hate it.”
“Ione thousand percenthate it.”
