Page 15 of Girls Will Be Girls
I love what I do. I think it’s fun, I think it’s important, but not everyone — especially other journalists — see it that way. I’m just the girl who writes stuff forother girls to read.
Or as my dad once said when he saw me looking at the magazines in the store:“Those are for brainless girls with nothing better to do than read about makeup or clothes. You want to be one of those girls?”
If only I knew then what I do now, I could’ve saved myself years of pick-me girl hell.
Because why wouldn’t I want to be like other girls? Girls are amazing, obviouslyI want to be like them
But right now, I’d rather avoid another lecture from arealjournalist about how what they do isrealwriting, and if I work hard enough I too can make arealdifference.
I could coat my shoes in a second layer of barf right now just thinking about the condescension that usually gets sent my way.
“This and that.” I deflect. “You?” I avert my gaze to my clothes, dusting off some imaginary cat hair from an imaginary cat.
I look back up when he doesn’t answer, and he’s just smirking at me again. “What?” I ask.
He spins himself to better face me now. “What’s with the deflection?”
“I’m not.”So much cat hair…
“Liar.” He whispers.
I look up and search his eyes, trying to think of a clever response and for a moment I forget I’m meant to be arming the battlements, raising my shields, preparing for a siege.
Why did he have to be a journalist?
“Why won’t you tell me?” He continues.
I shake my head, ridding myself of any thoughts about how pretty he is, how nice he smells, or how close his face is to mine right now. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Your job, or me knowing?” He asks.
Either Lou is unnaturally perceptive, or I wear every thought and emotion all over my face.
I sit back further in my seat. “Neither?” I wince.
He smiles at me.
“I like you.” He admits unceremoniously.
I open my mouth, unsure what to say, but luckily, the flight attendant saves me by offering us drinks.
After we both accept an orange juice from them, Lou starts tapping on his screen, then looks over to me.
“Con Air?” He says.
Then I notice he’s got the movie ready to go on his screen.
I look up at him. “Sounds good.”
He leans over to queue the movie up on my screen too, his fresh, herby but sweet scent invading my senses, and then he presses play on the screens at the same time so we can watch together.
I hate how freaking adorable that was.
He puts his headphones in with that playful smirk touching his lips, like he knows something, or sees something in me I don’t want him to see. I hunker down into my seat, hiding behind the headrest for most of the film, but as a ripped, white tank-topped Nicolas Cage, with his beautiful Alabama accent, is saving his daughter’s bunny, I can’t help my mind and eyes wandering over to the seat next to me.
Every time I sneak a look at Lou, the shifting sun highlights different parts of him. His stubbled chin looks sharp, his fingers look strong when he holds the armrest, and the veins in his neck look defined as his jaw tenses every so often. It makes me think of that one Maren Morris song. The line keeps popping into my head.
You’re so good looking it kind of makes me sick.
