Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,62

me or the made-up one?”

“The made-up one. Reality is boring.” He picks up another sign, this one with chickens on it. The painted words say: Welcome, we’re egg-cited to have you.

“Okay, the made-up reason is that I need you here to help me carry stuff if it’s too big,” I tease.

“Wait, I thought that was the real reason.”

“No, the real reason is I just want to spend time with you.”

“Aw,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “I take back all the awful things I thought about you when I first saw that horrible outfit you’re wearing tonight.”

“What? I love this dress,” I say, looking down at the white cotton midi dress with the spaghetti straps.

“It’s a no for me,” he says, raising steepled fingers to his lips.

“Never mind, you’re only here to carry the big stuff,” I say, flatly.

“I knew it!” Thomas exclaims.

I go back to looking around the store, leaving Thomas with his signs. Nothing is really jumping out at me today. When I find something, it’s usually because it catches my eye—as if it’s saying, Pick me! Pick me! But nothing is giving me that vibe right now. It’s probably meant to be. I need to finish that curio cabinet anyway, and I don’t need any new distractions.

I get Thomas’s attention and nod with my head toward the door. He holds up a sign that says, Silence, please! You are in the presence of a genius at work.

“I think I need this for my office,” he says, looking down at the worn wood plaque.

“Totally,” I say, knowing full well he wouldn’t be caught dead with a sign like that at work, regardless of how true he thinks that statement is.

“How goes the love triangle?” Thomas asks as we walk out of the antique shop into the extra-humid evening air.

I huff a breath out my nose. “There’s no love triangle,” I say.

“Yes, there is. You, Brady, Henry?”

“There’s no Henry in that scenario, so no triangle.”

“Well, Brady wants you, you want Henry, Henry wants . . . Oh, I see. You’re more like parallel lines.”

“Right,” I say.

“Then how is Boring Brady these days?”

“Don’t call him that.” I reach over and slug Thomas in the arm. “I feel bad that I ever called him that.”

“Oh, are we having feelings for Mr. Brady?”

I can feel Thomas’s eyes on me, so I turn my head to look at the window display of another antique store that I’ve never had any luck with. I don’t want Thomas to see my face; he’s very good at reading expressions, and especially mine.

“I like Brady,” I say when I turn my focus back to the sidewalk in front of us.

“Oh, you do, do you?” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “But do you liiiiike him?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. He’s thoughtful and . . . sweet.”

I see Thomas stop in my peripheral vision and turn my head to see him standing there on the sidewalk, pretending to be asleep. Loud snoring and all. A group of people pass by us, giving him strange looks.

“Stop being annoying,” I say, reaching over and grabbing him by the arm. I pull on him until he opens his eyes and we start walking again.

“He’s thoughtful and sweet,” Thomas says, trying to do an impression of me, but he ends up sounding like a girl from the eighties. One with a side ponytail and bright-pink lipstick.

“He really is,” I say, ignoring his teasing.

“Mmmm,” Thomas says, the sound coming off like a low growl. I hate this sound from him. It’s his judging sound.

“We’re going to be friends for now, take it slow.”

“That sounds like a bad idea,” Thomas says.

“Why?”

“Because you’ll do that Quinn thing you do,” he says.

“What Quinn thing do I do?” I say, my voice mocking.

“You’ll get all cozy and comfy with Brady, and then you’ll settle.”

A car with a loud muffler drives by, the sound reverberating off the buildings around us.

“What? I don’t do that,” I say, once the noise has passed.

“Don’t you?” Thomas asks, his hand coming up to rub his chin. A very know-it-all-professor look.

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”

“Okay, but what about your job?” Thomas says.

“What about my job?”

“Wasn’t your goal to do the morning or evening news or whatever?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Exactly,” he says.

I stop in my tracks, forcing Thomas to stop as well. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I feel my face flushing and not from the hot and damp evening air.

“You’ve gotten comfortable in midday.”

“No I haven’t. I’m just stuck there