A Toast to the Good Times - By Liz Reinhardt Page 0,36
Maybe Swim Fan. Or something stalkery and...not good.”
She pushes her dark bangs off of her forehead with her hand and shakes her mittened hands, then bites her lips. “It’s just, um, I watched a lot of romantic comedies on Netflix after you left. Which makes no sense, because once Firefly was done, I totally expected to watch Dr. Who for umpteen hours, but I accidentally pressed the down arrow on the controller, and, before I knew it, it was just all these adorable women finding men over radio shows or meeting up because their book stores closed or bumping into guys who weren’t Greek even though they are and, bam, fireworks...and the message seemed to be to just go and see the guy you lo— care about. The guy you care about. And that message is probably one of those ‘only in the movies’ things. Am I right?”
I have no idea how to respond to this word tirade. She looks tired. She looks sad and embarrassed.
And she looks hot.
I thought it was just the damn red dress, but that isn’t it, apparently, because she looks so good right now in her big coat and furry boots and one of those ridiculous French hats that girls love to wear but are so weird and look kind of like little cupcakes on their heads.
“So you came to see me?”
I smile at her, because she’s goddamn adorable and, in a town of people who pity, hate, or are disappointed in me, she’s that one sole person who honestly looks happy and eager to be around my sad sack ass.
“I did. I did, and I know it’s weird, so say the word and I’m outta here. Gone with the wind. Totally gone. Yep.”
Her cheeks are way too red for wind-chap; she’s blushing like crazy. Over me.
“No way.” I feel like a douche-hole for not knowing all of the things to say right now to make this less awkward, and I think of Toni and how I was too late to make things right with her and how I had to watch her feel all that pent-up anger from her time with me and there was nothing I could do.
But she gave me advice.
She told me what kind of girl to look for.
And I have a feeling I might be looking right at her.
I clear my throat and make my move.
“Hey, listen. I know it’s not high society Boston partying stuff, but my family will be watching A Christmas Story and arguing and getting into popcorn fights. It’s so lame. Seriously, my brother and sister may be the two most irritating people in the world. And you’d have to swear not to tell them about us watching it in the apartment, because it’s like this sacred Murphy tradition to only watch that movie on this holiest of all holy nights and all that. But if you wanna come by—”
“Yes!” She shuts her eyes and screws her mouth up. “That was probably super way too eager, right? I’m a dork? You can say it. You really can.”
“You are. You really are.” I put one hand under her chin and move my thumb along her jaw, remembering everything about the other night and wanting it all over again. And so much more. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She licks her lips and swallows, her eyes round and so perfectly green, they look like a cat’s eyes in some Halloween decoration.
“I, um, can’t stop thinking about you, either.” She slides her mittened hands up my coat, and I have the feeling things are about to get hotter fast when the screech of tires makes us both look into the street.
“Landry!” Henry leans across the seat of his old Volvo wagon and grins wide and loopy at Mila out the open passenger window.
I notice that she smiles shyly back. My hands fist, and I consider smacking one upside Henry’s thick skull.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“Mom asked me to go find you. She says we need to all be home, pronto and no excuses.” He turns his attention back to Mila. “So, are you a friend of Landry’s? My meathead brother doesn’t have very good manners, so let me introduce myself. I’m Henry Murphy and you are...?”
“Mila. Mila Eby.” She walks over to the car and pulls off one mitten that has a little puppet face with googly eyes glued on, so she can shake Henry’s hand.
He holds onto her way longer than he needs to for a