Chasing Crazy - Kelly Siskind Page 0,22

talking. Say as little as possible.

“And his abs are ripped,” she says. “He’d probably be an awesome lay.”

Close mouth. Stop eyes from bugging out. “Definitely,” I manage.

She spins around. “You don’t have a thing for Bruno, do you?”

“Sorry? What?” The minuscule bathroom with its two stalls and tiny sink closes in around me. I replay our one-way conversation and try to figure out where I veered off course.

“A thing for Bruno,” she repeats. “You just said he’d be an awesome lay. So, are you into him or not?”

She crosses her arms as I review all standard replies, but I have a sinking feeling this is one of those multiple choice questions I can’t possibly get right.

Choice A: “Yes, I’m into Bruno.”

Reese: “You total bitch, slut. Keep your skank hands to yourself.”

Choice B: “No way, he’s not my type.”

Reese: “So you’re saying I have shit taste? That you’re, like, better than me?”

Choice C: “I’m not sure. I mean, he’s cute, but…I don’t know.”

Reese: “Don’t fucking lie, Nina. Don’t play all innocent then go after him.”

I bite my lip, the taste from my cherry lip balm suddenly bitter. She squints harder as the seconds pass.

Backed into a corner, I choose Choice D: all of the above.

“I mean, he’s hot enough. For sure. But I don’t go for dark hair. And, well…I like taller guys? Wider shoulders? Strong jaw? Bruno’s a bit short. I mean, not too short. Just, you know, not that tall.” She narrows her gaze as I ramble on. “Bruno’s dark eyes are sexy. Just, like I said, not my thing. My ex (lie) has soft brown eyes, lighter in the center with heavy, thick lashes…” Lie. Lie. Lie.

She taps her flip-flop. “So you think Sam’s hot?”

Shoot. Tall. Wide shoulders. Strong jaw. Gold-flecked brown eyes. I just described One-syllable Sam. “God, no. Like you said, he’s super weird.” I inch toward the door. “I’m gonna go pick up our food and meet you at the table.” I squeeze by her folded arms, trying to ignore the way her lip curls in irritation.

As I wait at the bar for my soup and the girls’ three salads, I breathe in and out to the count of three, but it doesn’t ease the twisting in my stomach. No matter how hard I try, it seems I can’t shed the stench of loser sunk into my pores. Destined to be a moth, never a butterfly. This is no Cinderella story. A wave rushes below the extended deck, the push and pull of the water joining the rhythm of the reggae piping through the speakers. The sound lulls my nerves. Some.

“Soup and salads,” the waitress calls.

Soup. My comfort food.

My fascination with soup began the year Mom tried to master banana bread. Because the loaves contained fruit, she thought it was okay to make it for dinner. Every night. Thanks to Mom’s 0.2 ranking on the I-Can-Cook-O-Meter, each loaf was denser than the next. Like don’t-swim-for-five-hours-after-ingestion-or-you-will-sink-like-a-rock dense. Since she refused to order takeout, I took over feeding our family. I made soup and got darn good at it.

I hurry to the table with Leigh’s and Reese’s salads. Reese smiles with half her face, and Leigh doesn’t glance my way.

Callum puts his burger down and swallows. “Need a hand, luv?”

“No, no. I’ve got it.”

He shrugs, swigs his beer, and I return to the bar for my soup and Brianne’s pile of lettuce.

“The soup’s hot,” the waitress warns as I grip the tray with both hands.

The smell of ginger and roasted carrots curls in the rising steam. I take a small step and close my eyes to inhale the yummy scent. Buzzing pricks my ears. My eyes fly open, and I grip the tray tighter as a wasp lands on the edge of the salad.

“I’m hungry,” Brianne whines. She twists her pink-tipped hair around her finger.

“Be right there,” I say too quietly. But I don’t move.

“Seriously, Nina. Hurry up,” Reese calls over the music.

My gaze stays locked on the evil insect. I try to speak louder. “Yeah.” Wasp. “Sure.” Wasp. “I’ll be right there.” Wasp.

I inch forward, and my soup sloshes in its bowl. The wasp flies off, and it lands on my skirt. My skirt. It sits there doing its wasp thing, taunting, terrorizing, letting me know it could possibly, probably, surely sting me at any second, provoked or not.

Frickin’ wasp. I want so badly to drop the tray and run from the almighty wasp, but I’m three days incident-free. I’m Nina, not Pininfarina. No scene will