Page 13 of Fangirl Down

“What does that mean?” she asked, tilting her head.

Wells glanced around. “You’re answering your own question by dragging me to get a haircut.”

“I should have let you be your own worst enemy in peace?”

“Exactly.”

She hummed while trading an amused glance with the barber. “Don’t forget to shave his neck.”

A few beats of silence passed, the spritz of the spray bottle filtering in between the sound of hair dryers and muted conversations throughout the salon. Wells flicked her a curious look and sat up a little straighter, earning him a sigh from the barber. “What about you? You got a boyfriend, or what, Josephine? I’m guessing not.”

The barber whistled under his breath. “Brave.”

Josephine covered her wave of embarrassment with an eye roll.

“What?” Wells jerked a shoulder. “I’m not saying she isn’t...” He trailed off, visibly searching for a new direction. “I’m not saying she doesn’t have one. But if you had a boyfriend, I’m guessing he wouldn’t love the fact that you spend entire afternoons cheering me on so enthusiastically. That’s all I meant by guessing you’re single.”

“You’re saying I can’t be an avid spectatorandhave a boyfriend?”

He gave a brief headshake. “Not if I was your boyfriend.”

“No chance of that,” the barber commented. “You’re digging a pretty deep hole.”

“Could you mind your own business and just cut my hair?” Wells griped, before shifting in his seat and retraining his attention on Josephine. “Boyfriend or not, belle?”

“Not,” she said sweetly. “Thank God.”

Why did he seem weirdly pleased by that? “Now it’s my turn to ask whatyoumean.”

“I don’t really know what I mean,” she said honestly, after a short sifting of thoughts. Snippets of time she’d spent on dates or attempting relationships that never quite entered a comfortable phase. “I guess...”

Wells was watching her closely. “What?”

“Women are expected to be kind of... demure. Or grateful. Most of the time I’m neither of those things.”

“How is that?”

Josephine braced her shoulders against the wall and looked up at the ceiling, trying to put into words why she’d slowly let dating take a back seat to her job for the last couple of years. “I think it’s partly that I learned to challenge myself growing up, because no one was going to do it for me. I talked myself into trying things people cautioned me against—like playing sports or entering a dance contest. Challenging myself and succeeding made me feel good, so... I don’t know, maybe I falsely expect people to appreciate when I challenge them—”

“Trash-talk them, you mean?”

“Sometimes.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Also, I grew up on a golf course where the love language is trash talking. That’s how I communicate. And guys can dish it out, but they can’t take it.”

Wells snorted.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really. What?”

The barber had stopped trimming Wells’s hair so he could listen to the conversation. Wells leaned back and raised a lazy eyebrow at the man, and he promptly got moving again. “You claim you want a guy who trash talks you, but your feelings would get hurt.”

“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Whitaker. Exactly how many women have you sent to therapy?”

“No idea.” He winced as the barber sharpened his blade. “I don’t conduct exit interviews.”

“Maybe you should start. It could be enlightening.”

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