You and Everything After(6)

By: Ginger Scott

Our mom always says that Nate’s the romantic one. Me, I’m all numbers and practicality and logic. But I don’t know, I think my romantic-side is alive and breathing—it’s just tortured. It’s this sliver of my soul that feels certain that there’s only one girl out there who could ever love me, and her love wasn’t meant to last forever.

“Hahahaha! You are sooooo not the sexy one,” a chick’s voice squeals from behind me so loudly that I’m compelled to turn around. That, and she said the word sex, pretty much an automatic for me. I glance over my shoulder, and at first all I can see are two blondes. I can’t quite make out their features, but if pushed, I’d say they were both probably pretty damned sexy. When they pass me, I breathe in and the air smells like the ocean. One of them is taller than the other—lean, but built, clearly a runner. The other one is curvy; she’s wearing a sundress that, if I had to guess, was hiding no bra, and probably a pretty sexy pair of panties.

“You’re, like, predictable sexy,” the tall one says, and I hear a bubble snap from her gum. “I’m like ninja sexy.”

I can’t help but smirk at what she says. This chick’s funny. And I’d have to say, that might just give her the edge on sexy. I keep my gaze forward, pretending to look at something on my phone screen on the table, but I notice the pair of them slide into a booth across the room.

“What’ll you have today, Ty?” Cal says, pulling the pencil from behind his ear to write down our order. I don’t know why he bothers asking. Four weeks we’ve been coming here, and I’m pretty sure we’ve ordered the same thing every time.

“Cheeseburgers,” I say, nodding to Nate, who’s now standing behind Cal and waiting to slide back to his seat.

“Oh, hey Nate,” Cal says, writing down our order, and putting the pen back in its spot somewhere within his disheveled of hair and the mesh Budweiser hat he wears every single day.

“I’m starved, man. Today’s practice was brutal. It’s just…so damned hot,” Nate says, pulling his own phone out and looking at the screen. I’m glad he’s only half paying attention to me, because my focus is dedicated to the booth about twenty feet away.

“Do you have any low-fat dressings? Like, at all?” the curvy blonde says, a strand of her hair wrapped around her finger when she asks.

“We have Italian,” says the older woman taking their order.

“Yeah, but is it just oil? That doesn’t mean low-fat. Is it fat-free or low-fat?” This chick is high-maintenance.

“It’s…Italian,” the waitress says. A small chuckle escapes my lips, and the other girl, the ninja, looks my way briefly. I don’t know why, but my heart kicks a little at getting caught.

“She’ll have the Italian. Just put it on the side,” the ninja princess says, and the waitress walks away.

“Good thinking. It’s low-fat if you put it on the side,” the diva says. My ninja princess just stares at her, watching her pull out a mirror and check her lipstick; then she flips her gaze to me. This time, I don’t panic; instead, I just lift the right side of my lip in a tiny grin to let her know I’m with her—hell, I’m so with her. She shakes her head at me in disbelief, and then returns her gaze back to her friend.

“Putting the dressing in a different bowl doesn’t change its chemistry, Paige,” she says, and I smirk again.

“What’s so funny, dude?” Nate interrupts, but I shake my head and hold my hand up against the table.

“Hang on, I have to hear this out,” I whisper; he bunches his brow before turning to look at the two girls behind him who have me completely rapt.

“Then why the hell did you make me get it on the side, Cass?” she asks, and I commit that name to memory the second it leaves her lips.

“So you could use less,” Cass huffs back.

“That’s stupid,” Paige says.

“Yes, I see that now,” Cass says, stepping out from their booth to head to the restroom area. She gives me one last smile before she leaves, and I hold up my empty beer glass to toast her—the sexy ninja princess, with the patience of gold, and the next girl I want to get to know in Oklahoma.

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