You're So Bad (Finding You #2)

by Angela Casella

I’m in my pajamas at six-forty on a Saturday night, eating a pint of ice cream while watching a bad dating show with my grandmother’s Corgi.

I mean, no girl wants to be out-foxed by her grandmother.

If I told her that, she’d insist no granddaughter of hers could possibly be a wilting violet either, but I feel like one lately, down to my fading, overgrown purple pixie cut and the zit on my cheek.

Vanilla, purchased so I could share, because I am this dog’s bitch. Fine by me. I’d rather be his bitch than some man’s girlfriend.

Fantastic. Not only am I talking to a dog—I’m talking to him and he’s not listening.

It’s this air he has–like he’s always five minutes away from making his next mistake or banging someone in the bathroom of a Wendy’s.

He looks like someone who sells used cars. The really bad ones that wouldn’t get you two blocks.”

Constance always thinks she knows more than she does. Except about cheese. She knows a lot about cheese.”

“My story is more pathetic than epic.” “All the better. I live for other people’s pathetic stories. It makes me feel better about my own life.”

I can see it in those monsters she makes, in the gleam in her eyes when she’s putting me in my place. There’s something wicked about her, like she’s just waiting for someone to push her over the edge, or maybe up against a wall…

“Why do I think you’re going to want to make a huge clay dick?” “Because you’re an excellent judge of character,”

I’ve wanted her since the first time she threatened me with physical harm, within minutes of meeting me, but that’s not what this is about.

I give her my number, and she sends off a text. I pull out my phone when it vibrates and grin at the middle finger emoji in my inbox. I snap a photo of her, catching her with one eye half closed, the other wide open, then save it to my contacts under Light of My Life.

Get this, though. We’re all going to be making pompoms on Friday night.” “There you go,” I say with a grin. “Our chance to prove, once and for all, that your balls are bigger.”

He’s as hot as a flaming Cheeto soaked in sriracha and lit on fire, mostly because he’s a little grungy and unsuitable.

Can a person go through a mid-life crisis at thirty-one? Because it certainly feels like that’s what’s happening.

Grandpa Frank, whose name my grandmother changed on my phone while she was drunk, to Grandpa Fruckface. I’m guessing she didn’t keep the r on purpose, but I kept it that way because it makes me laugh.

It’s hard to admit that about someone who’s gone, because it means nothing can be fixed. But it’s no less true.

I’m guessing you have a hangover. Am I right? I like being right.

You don’t believe in the mystical beyond, donut? Never call me that again.

listen because they want to hear—not because they’re waiting for their chance to speak.

Now, leave me alone until a more reasonable hour. Shauna Lesson #1: I am not a morning person.

Leonard Lesson #1: I’m more of a middle of the night person, but if you’re in the mood for a good time, I’ll ride you right no matter what time it is. ;)

I’ve always had a thing for Fruit Loops. Generic fruit loops, because that damn toucan comes with a markup.

Push up your sleeve a bit more.” I should probably ask him to take off his shirt, but he’s already got that edge of wanting to run. I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of pervert.

I feel like a damn goose is tap-dancing on my grave,

that kind of love—the kind you don’t have to ask for or deserve. The kind that can envelop you and make you feel almost full.

“I’d no sooner forget the cheese than I’d forget Tiger here’s birthday.” Then he adds in a theatrical whisper, “When’s your birthday, Tiger? Help a guy out.”

French fries should be crisp and warm in the middle. Anything less is like a hot date that ends with a limp noodle.

looking down at her french fries like they might hold all the answers to the world. Just in case they do, I grab another and crunch into it.

I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I’d like to make her feel a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.

I catch her eyeing my coffee and draw it closer to my chest. “This coffee is mine, and I will kill without remorse to protect it.”

I find Mira’s honesty refreshing, actually. It’s nice to be around people who actually say what they mean.

Her offer gives me a shocking sense of relief. When was the last time I let someone else take care of everything? When was the last time I let someone else take care of anything?

Can I kiss you, Tiger, or will you scratch?”

his eyes are the sad blue of a baby seal who’s about to see the business end of a club.

He looks like he could only have an accidental acquaintance with the female orgasm.

I keep imagining him lying in his bed with his shirt off, Bean snuggled up next to him. I suspect his shirt will always be off in my imagination now that I’ve seen the goods.

And then there’s Leonard. Leonard, who made me come so hard I saw stars on the edges of my vision. Leonard, who loves cats and hangs out with grandmothers and tries to take care of runaways. Leonard, who fixed that broken mug I gave him the other day and left it out on his kitchen counter, like it was something worth saving. Leonard, who can’t sleep at night for reasons I’d like to know. Leonard, who watched The Sopranos with me.

He makes me feel more alive. I think he does it for everyone he’s around, without even meaning to, maybe without even realizing it.

Its scent fills the air like the promise of spring at the end of a brutal winter.

Then, because he’s Leonard, he really does start singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Damn him, he has the voice of an angel.

I can’t deny that I feel his gravitational pull—or that his hands on me feel different than anyone else’s.

a VW Beetle so old it looks like it’s held together with masking tape and a hallelujah,

Leonard calls me a tiger, but I’ve only become that way because when the people you love keep turning you away, you grow claws.

Bad things happen to everyone, honey, and even if it hurts so much you can’t breathe, you can come out the other side and find unicorns shitting rainbows. It’s okay to still hurt. And it’s okay to enjoy the view.”

“I flipped burgers at Wendy’s for a while.” He gives Bertie a hopeful look. The little gremlin wags his tail. “I like animals.” “That’s good,” I say. “We have an in at an animal shelter where they pretend to euthanize kittens. They’d probably let you volunteer. Just don’t get too attached to any of the animals.”

She’s…magnificent. Except that word doesn’t seem big enough for her.

“I don’t have anything better to change into, so I’m probably still going to smell, ma’am.” She tuts her tongue again. “Do you have any objection to wearing clothing left behind by an odious man?” “Depends on what odious means,” he says, slouching a little. “Well, my dear boy, it’s a long story involving a water aerobics instructor.

Reese shows up in a pair of tweed pants, a polo shirt with white buttons and a sour look on his face. “I look like someone’s grandfather.” “Someone’s shitty grandfather,” Shauna pipes up from the couch.