Not only that, I lay in bed pathetically both nights until my eyes drooped, waiting for my phone to light up in the dark. Every new friend request on Facebook could have been him but wasn’t.
Waiting. Sucked.
All I keep thinking is, Gee, Molly, you let him stick his tongue down your throat, for crying out loud.
But you know what else sucks? The fact that I don’t know who to be more pissed off at: him for blowing me off, or me for letting it affect me so much.
I really thought—ugh, crap, you know what I thought.
Why do guys have to ruin everything with their melodramatic bull crap? I mean seriously. It’s not like I wanted to skip down the halls with him holding hands, but a text or something would have been nice. A simple Thanks for the date would not have been too much to ask and would have taken him all of what, ten seconds?
Can I also point out that guys have the nerve to call girls dramatic when they’re just as bad? I know exactly what Weston McGrath is thinking in that fat head of his. He’s worried I’m going to unleash my inner stalker and fall madly in love with him when he doesn’t have time for it, which reminds me—I once innocently asked this guy, Dave, to a baseball game, and instead of just telling me no like a normal human being, he said he wasn’t looking for a relationship, so yeah, there’s your proof that guys are just as bad as girls.
And for the record: I’m not saying I wouldn’t fall in love with Weston…because I’m already halfway there.
I’m guess I’m disappointed it was just that one date.
The one date that ruined me for everyone else.
How annoying.
* * *
Weston
I don’t know how to fix this.
Molly is still watching me from her table a few rows over, sporting an impassive expression if I’ve ever seen one. She raises an eyebrow, silently daring me to make a move.
I hesitate.
Then, in what some might consider a dick move, I push the chair opposite me out with the toe of my boot, sliding it away from the table in a silent invitation.
A plea, in my own twisted way, for her to come sit with me.
Leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms, I try to appear unaffected as I gauge her reaction. At first she narrows her eyes; obviously, she’s trying to figure out why I pushed the chair out. Hell, I’m trying to figure out why I pushed the chair out when two minutes ago I was in panic mode about relationships.
So this could have just become one of those awkward moments in my life that I don’t know how to handle. What I’d really like to do is walk out of study hall to avoid the entire situation, but I won’t be able to without getting my ass chewed out by the librarian or earning myself a detention. Damn, I hate second-guessing myself. Would it have killed me to be friendlier when she was looking for a place to sit? The very least I could have done was offered up a smile, but at the time I was still trying to decode what her sitting with me might mean.
Shit, that sounded like something a girl would say.
Now…she’s too far away.
At least it doesn’t appear she hates me. Still studying me, Molly starts tapping her pen on the cover of her book—I can hear it from here—until the goth chick at her table reaches out, grabs it out of her hands, and tosses it on the carpeted ground.
Molly looks stunned. I watch as her neck turns bright red, and I swear, if I weren’t trying to get back into her good graces, I would be laughing my ass off right now.
Stop being a pussy, Weston, and get in there, my dad’s voice echoes in my head. It’s a mantra I’ve heard thousands of times, and I’ve never repeated it to myself until now. So, hooking my booted foot back around the leg of the chair I’ve just pushed out, I pull it back in…then push it back out, giving her a pointed look.
Her eyebrows raise and she cocks her head.
“Come here,” I mouth quietly.
Indignantly, Molly purses her lips, but even so, the corners are upturned…the little brat.
“Please?” Begging in the library—I feel like such a douche.
It only takes a few more seconds before Molly is biting down on her lower lip and letting go of her own demons long enough to collect her things slowly and stand. My eyes roam her body as she walks toward me. I think I just realized I could look at her all day and it would never get old.
Her hip comes to rest on the corner of my library table as she stands in front of me with a hand on one waist, hip jutted out. “Let’s get one thing straight, mister,” she whispers, still vertical. “I’m not one of your rink bunnies. I won’t worship at your feet, and I’m certainly not gonna—”