Page 48 of Finding Storm

My face heats. “Am not!” I exclaim. “It was just better! Linda Hamilton in T-1 was all meek and wimpy. Completely useless. T-2—total badass!”

“True.” He nods. “But that was just character evolution. She saw a lot of shit after T-1. She had no choice but to be badass after that.”

“No way!” I toss my hand in the air. “She should have been badass Sarah Connor from the word go. You bet your ass, if a terminator pulls a gun out on me, I ain’t running, crying to the cops or Kyle Reese to save me—even though Kyle was hot as fire. Nope. I’m getting a grenade launcher and blowing that fucker’s head off.”

He laughs. A deep sound that rumbles out of his chest.

It makes my chest fill with this strange sense of warmth.

An awareness settles over my skin. Like electricity and fire. Calm and peace. It’s … different.

I’ve known this guy not even half an hour. Yet we’re talking like we’ve been friends for years.

“And to finish off—”

“There’s more?”

I slide him a look. He’s grinning, amused.

“There’s always more when discussing the finer points of Terminator 2.”

“I’m all ears.”

“First off, T-2 had way better one-liners.” I recite a couple of the well-known lines from the movie, doing my best Arnie impression, which earns me a laugh. “And secondly, T-2 has the better ending. The best ending of any movie ever.”

“Okay.” He nods. “I’ll give you that.”

“Right? When Arnie sacrifices himself for John”—I slap a hand to my chest—“gets me every time.”

“You totally cried, didn’t you?”

I frown in his direction. “Eh … no. Maybe. Okay … a little.”

He chuckles.

“Come on!” I toss a hand into the air. “It was sad as all hell! When Arnie lowers himself into that vat of liquid steel … you can’t tell me you didn’t tear up a little at that.” Even Beck did.

“Nope.”

I give him a look of disappointment. “Cold, dude. Stone-cold.” I shake my head, teasing.

He laughs again.

I’m finding I enjoy making him laugh.

Dad always says, “If you can make others smile, then why wouldn’t you?”

“So, Stevie …” His voice sounds good, saying my name. Like Nutella sliding onto bread. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re—”

“Weird?” I cut him off, beating him to the punch.

It’s not the first time someone’s said that to me. Won’t be the last.

My ex used to tell me all the time that I was weird. He never meant it as a compliment.

I accepted my weirdness years ago. I wear my weirdo ways with pride.

“I was going to say, different.”