Page 189 of How to Lose at Love

“Ugh, I can’t get that argument with Tiffany out of my head,” she says at long last, blurting out the issue without further prodding, one of the traits I love about her most—her honesty and forthrightness from the get-go.

“She just didn’t seem to get it.” Ryann breathes out slowly. “It’s irritating.”

“Why does that bother you so much?”

Ryann shrugs. “I have no idea.” Pauses. “And that look she gave me? I don’t know, I have a feeling she’s not going away.”

Yeah, probably not.

Stage five clingers like Tiffany are bottom feeders who never quite disappear the way you want them to. Instead, they linger, waiting for any scrap or crumb that gets left behind so they can latch onto it.

Any opening…

“Don’t let her bother you, okay? I’ll talk to the boys and let them know and that will be that. ’Kay?”

Ryann lifts her hand to my face, touching my cheek.

Gives me a slow smile. “Okay.”

I kiss her, leaning her back against the pillows of her bed, the Styrofoam hamburger container not too far out of reach. If it wouldn’t create a mess, I’d probably knock the damn thing to the ground so it’d be out of the way.

“Know what might make you feel better?” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“If we play truth or dare.” The idea pops into my head, and though I’m not necessarily in the mood for games, she needs to get her mind off the freaking neighbor girl. The last damn thing I need is that chick ruining my evening—she’s done enough.

Ryann worries her lip. “Truth.”

I hum, using the tip of my finger to draw a heart around her exposed belly button.

“When did you know you didn’t hate my guts?”

Her eyes widen. “I never hated your guts.”

“Okay, but you didn’t like me at first…”

“No, I didn’t. It made no sense why you’d break up with me for Diego.” Who she still has had no contact with since the dumping.

“Maybe it was fate,” I tease.

She smacks my hand. “Ha-ha.”

But I’m serious. Maybe it was part of God’s plan, not to sound sappy and sentimental, but… “Everything happens for a reason, yeah?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

A few moments go by. “So? What’s your answer? When was the moment you started liking me?”

She shrugs, lying on the bed. “Not sure. Probably when you came and sat next to me in class that first day you realized I was in it. I didn’t exactly find it annoying…I thought you were cute.”

“Cute! You think I’m cute?”

She’s never called me cute before.

She rolls her eyes as if she’s embarrassed to have said it. “I mean, obviously you know you’re good-looking.”

Well, duh, but it’s one thing to have random people call you handsome or hot, to have your own mother tell you you’re good-looking. It’s another thing entirely to have the girl you have feelings for tell you she thinks you’re cute.

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