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It’s like everyone else drank the Kool-Aid and saw the pretty colors, but I was just left standing there in the dark with a cup of water and red food coloring.
“We’re keeping your thinning hairline in our thoughts, Abs.”
“Come on, Abs. Getting date-raped isn’t a party game.”
Buy a man flowers, at least. Or hell, lead off with a good joke. But it is what it is, I suppose.
Because whoever is torturing this poor girl is certainly watching us right now and they can eat shit. “Lead the way, babe.”
“I didn’t know! Abigail goes through boyfriends like boxes of cereal. I wasn’t keeping up with her love life.”
Which is even more reason to get the hell out of here before I catch feelings. Because Conor Edwards is absolutely the guy you fall for before you learn that girls like me don’t get guys like him.
Rachel’s room is…a lot. Like a VSCO girl and a mommy blogger threw up on a Disney princess.
“Or, or, hear me out: you take me on as your muscle and handsome sidekick and we hit the road as soldiers of fortune.”
“Jail?” I try to lighten the mood. “Give yourself more credit, buddy. With your face and body, you would’ve made a killing in porn.”
“Babe, you’ve got the kind of body that boys build in their heads under the sheets after dark.”
“I mean it.” His voice thickens. “I’ve been sitting here having filthy thoughts about you all night. Don’t mistake my manners for indifference.”
I truly believe that all body types are beautiful. It’s only when I look in the mirror that I forget.
From the first whistle, Coach has been on a rampage like he just found out Jake Connelly knocked up his daughter or something.
“See this?” I tell the room, holding up the leather purse. “This is a sacred place. Any man who dares snoop through a woman’s purse will be murdered in his sleep by the Bag Butcher.” Conor snickers. “Damn, babe. Your serial killer is showing.”
They’re only a step or two on the evolutionary scale from feral chickens, but they’re certainly not boring.
“I’m still twenty pounds from my goal porn star weight,”
“Hey,” I chide, “I didn’t say yes.” “You basically said yes.” “I was at a seventy percent at best.” “Welp, might as well prance that last thirty, because we’re blowing up, babe.”
“Taylor Marsh, will you do me the incredible honor of updating your relationship status and becoming my fake girlfriend?”
“I told Max if he starts seeing Goop charges on the credit card statements to stage an intervention.”
“I think you should let me kiss you.” “Because you were probably dropped on your head as a child,” I snap back.
Taylor Marsh has no idea how cool she is, and that’s a fucking shame.
I close the door to someone muttering “fascist” under his breath.
When Taylor and I returned to the hotel earlier, I got a text from Summer in all caps demanding to know why she hadn’t been invited on the shopping trip. I reminded her that she and Demi had skipped out on brunch to run errands, to which she informed me that “my conspiracy to keep her away from malls ends today.”
And if you knew him like I do, you would’ve stabbed him in the nuts with one of those heels and gone on about your life without a second thought.” “Shit.” I breathe out a sad laugh. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Con, you should make Foster pay rent if he’s gonna stay on your dick this much,”
She’s been to her bleach dealer, it seems. Her hair is now a shade of white that somehow absorbs all natural light and reflects only blinding bitch.
standing between me and the door to prevent me from peeing. I should pee on her fancy Louboutins just to prove a point about the repercussions of bathroom barriers.
Lovely. He who smells like too much body spray and Cheetos.
“Society tells boys to divide and conquer, and tells girls to save ourselves for some younger future version of our father. Just doing some quick math in my head and…yep, that comes out to a bunch of hypocritical bullshit. Your self-worth is not tied up in your vagina or how many girls came before you.”
That kid would give up his bank PIN if you asked nicely.
“I mean this is Coach Jensen’s house. Forty-two Manchester Road.” “But this is Chad’s house.” A strangled laugh pops out. “Hey babe, let’s play a game—” “What are you babbling about?” “—It’s called ‘Guess Coach Jensen’s first name.’” There’s a beat. Then Taylor’s cheeks go pale. “Oh my God. IS IT CHAD?”
“Only thing going down your throat tonight is water or juice or my fist,” he warns.
“Edwards. I don’t know why I’ve been cursed with sitting through this dinner with one of you knuckleheads—I assume I ran over a unicorn or set fire to an orphanage in a past life—but if you act like an idiot tonight I’m going to have you doing bag skates every day until graduation.”
Conor has the artistic aptitude of a gerbil.
