Curvy Girls Can't Date Bad Boys - Kelsie Stelting Page 0,10
finally coming true,” Ryde said. “And now I have my dream job and a beautiful girl to spend my future with.”
Dad grinned between the two of us, clearly pleased with his matchmaking ability.
Ryde’s acting skills were truly unfortunate. In this very same restaurant, he’d told me he thought he would be marrying someone who actually liked him, and that definitely wasn’t me. But now he had my dad completely convinced he was falling for me, making me look petulant because the “feelings” weren’t reciprocated.
I mean, he was cute—in the early Matt Damon kind of way—with his six-pack abs and blond hair and blue eyes, but I was looking for something more. Something real. I never wanted to date an actor again. You never knew who they really were—only who they wanted you to know.
Nothing about Ryde, or the family he came from, seemed honest. It was all a game to them, each action signifying a political act that would get them closer to the top of the food chain and everyone else closer to the bottom.
Our relationship was just another step in that direction, and I hated to be part of it. But what choice did I have? Dad was the only family I knew. And even though he was strong-willed and staring at me like a test subject in a zoo, he was my dad.
“Next question,” Dad said. “How do teens feel about money?”
Ryde smirked. “Great, if you can get some.”
Dad scribbled notes, hanging on to Ryde’s every word.
I took another drink of my latte and checked out. If I was going to convince my father against an arranged marriage, I’d have to find another way.
Eight
When I got home that night and lay down in bed to relax, a message was waiting for me on Sermo, the chat app everyone at school used to talk with each other. Having a password protected messaging app was way better than using your phone’s messages, which could show up on your screen and be easily read by parents or other nosy people.
Jordan: How was the lesson?
Zara: Ryde hijacked it.
Callie: Seriously?
Ginger: How did he even know about it?
Zara: My dad invited him.
Rory: Ugh.
Zara: Yep.
Callie: :( Anything we can do?
Zara: Unless you want to put out a hit on a certain obnoxious actor…
Rory: True. We can totally get you a chocolate muffin from Seaton’s.
I grinned, thinking of the delicious food available at Seaton Bakery. Just the thought made my mouth water.
Zara: Please?
Jordan: I can get it. But it’ll cost you your firstborn child.
Zara: If it’s Ryde’s, you can have it.
Rory: LOL
Callie: You have to admit you two would have GORGEOUS babies.
Ginger: Right? Could you imagine the complexions?
Zara: Ew, ew, ew. I’m sorry I brought it up. No baby talk.
Ginger: Wahhhhhh
Zara: LOL
Callie: What if you just...talked to him? Didn’t argue, didn’t fight, just told your dad how you feel?
My heart constricted. Talking with my dad? He would have to learn how to listen first. And I would have to keep from getting frustrated at that fact. It always felt like my mom understood me, and Dad loved her so much that he got me by proxy. Because the fact was I had. I’d told him. Each time he brought a guy home, it was wrong—all wrong, and each time I told him so, he grew more frustrated.
I wished more than anything that my mom was here. That she would sweep my hair back and say something like, “Men are like Assam tea. It takes a moment for the message to sink in.”
Maybe I just needed to brew him a fresh batch, pour the purest water and talk with him—not as his daughter, but as me.
Mom used to always make tea when things were hard—even when she was sick, she’d sit with me while I brewed tea just the way she liked it. Ever since she died, I drank coffee, not wanting to relive the memories of her thin, shaking hands so weak she couldn’t lift the cup to her mouth. But I’d do anything to feel her closer now.
I went downstairs and found a tea kettle, then filled it with water and set it on the stove. Near the coffee maker, I found jars of fresh teas and set to work. Even though it had been seven years since I’d made tea, the steps came easily. Like my muscles had remembered them even when my mind begged to forget.
Soft footsteps sounded in the threshold, then froze. I turned to see