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“Yeah, at the moment, I do.”
“At the moment?” She laughed and muttered, “Unreal.”
“It’s not what it sounds like,” I retorted, pissed off that she’d managed to piss me off minutes into our non-date.
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“Look, I don’t know what your story is, and I really don’t care. In case you forgot, it was your grandmother who arranged this little whatever the hell it is, not me. So get over yourself.”
“Whatever,” she muttered.
“Besides,” I continued, feeling a wave of heat rush through me, one that was full of anger. “You’re right about one thing.”
She slowed down as we approached the city limits. “Oh yeah, Romeo, what’s that?”
“I do have a type, and you’re not it.”
“Ouch,” she replied sarcastically, eyes on the road ahead.
“I can’t imagine with that attitude you’d be anyone’s type.”
She had no comeback for that one, and I exhaled, sinking into my seat as I stared out the window. I thought that maybe it was going to be the longest afternoon of my life.
We reached the festival grounds about five minutes later. After Monroe refused to take money off me for parking, we headed into the Peach Festival, one that I hadn’t attended since I was, like, twelve.
As we headed into the main area, I remembered why. It was for kids. I looked around and sighed. Old people and kids. Lots of old people and kids.
There was a midway near the back. I could see the Ferris wheel from where we stood, and game alley was set up just in front. Between us and the midway was a huge number of arts and craft booths, and beyond that were food stands.
“You want something to eat?” I grumbled, wanting nothing more than to end this thing as quickly as I could. I figured if I shoved some food into her and toured the grounds quickly, we could call it a night and be done with it.
“Sure,” she said. “In a bit. I want to look at the craft booths, if that’s all right?”
I glanced down at her sharply, but she stared straight ahead. It was then that I realized a few things. She was small next to me, probably five-four, while I was a couple of inches over six feet and still growing. With her pale skin, pale eyes, and dark hair, she really was the opposite of Rachel or any other girl I’d ever dated.
There was something about her though. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I thought that maybe if I wasn’t so screwed up and she wasn’t such a bitch, she could be someone I’d be interested in.
Maybe.
“Oh, look,” she pointed toward a booth. “Rag dolls.”
I groaned and followed her into the craft center.
Maybe not.
Chapter Seven
Monroe
“You’re right about one thing. I do have a type, and you’re not it.”
Ouchie.
Or at least it would be an ouchie if I cared. Which I didn’t. Not really. I was used to people backing away from me. It was usually in response to me opening my mouth and saying something nasty, which was easy enough to do when your parents were just grateful that you spoke at all.
I knew I’d been a bitch in the past, just as I’d been right now. I just couldn’t seem to help myself.
And sure, my therapist told me it was my way of keeping my distance—of avoiding contact, but whatever. For the most part, I preferred to be alone, which was why this whole festival thing was stupid.
