Excerpt . . .
Heading to Lens Crafters is a nightmare. The traffic is
heinous, and Edward played basketball after school while he was waiting for me
to gather my crap. He’s pretty much stinking up my car. I roll down the window,
trying to get some fresh air, and he laughs.
“It’s really that bad?” he asks, and I grimace but don’t say
anything. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “Just say what you need to say.”
“But then I’d have to inhale,” I say quickly, then cover my
mouth with my hand.
He belts out a hearty laugh, pulls his feet out of his shoes,
and props them up onto the dash, making a ‘aw, isn’t that refreshing?’ noise. I
freeze and hold my breath. I feel like I’ve been trapped.
“You can’t hold it forever, flower girl.”
“You’re so mean, and, oh man, I think I just threw up a bit
in my mouth.”
“I love this. The friendship we have. The honesty just pours
out of your mouth, like—”
“Raw sewage.” I look pointedly at his feet, and he pulls
them down, as though embarrassed.
And then he sticks them on me.
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