“You’re reaching.” What a wench. She’s a goddamn wench. “You’re obnoxious,” I shoot back, reverting to an admittedly juvenile comeback. But . . . she joins me. “You’re pompous.” “You’re repugnant.” Her mouth falls open for a second before she says, “You’re terribly unpleasant.” “You’re . . . you’re short.” Good one, Alec. “You have horrendous taste in shoes.” “There’s nothing—” I take a deep breath. “There is nothing wrong with my shoes. But there is something wrong with your personality.” I give her a once-over too. “And taste in clothing. 1990 called—they want their bedazzler back.” Luna
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