I don’t respond.
“Can I at least say you l-looked – look – great tonight. I hardly recognized you at first.” He’s stuttering a little.
So cute.
But hold up - here’s the thing: when someone says ‘I hardly recognized you’ – is that supposed to be a compliment or something? It’s almost like they’re saying, ‘Hey, you looked really ratchet before, but now that you’ve thrown some makeup on and did your hair, you look so much better! Not nearly as hideous!’
Still, I cut him some slack because I know that’s not what he meant, and I’m sick of him thinking I’m complete bitch. So instead of jumping down his throat, I grin and turn towards him. “Thanks. You look pretty too.”
And he does.
His turquoise blue polo shirt brings out the auburn in his mussed up hair, makes his tan skin look darker and his biceps look bigger.
Ugh. Seriously Cece – again with the biceps…
Sorry, not sorry. Can I help it if his muscles are so big that the shirt strains around his arms and my eyes refuse to look away? It’s not like I have any control over it. My body is saying ‘take your eyes off his body and I’ll cut off all your air flow’ – not me.
Matthew Wakefield is quickly becoming my favorite bit ‘o’ eye candy. And right now he’s looking at me as if I’ve just become his.
I gulp, feeling like we might be, um… having a moment.
I shiver.
“Are you cold? Why don’t you put on your jacket?” His eyes dart to the beige leather jacket I have laying across my lap, which I’ve been instructed by Molly is for emergency use only. Before I walked out of our apartment, she grabbed me by the shoulders and said (and none too kindly either), “Now you listen and you listen good Cecelia Carter (Molly pointed at me like she’s a trial lawyer and I’m on the witness stand). I busted my ass getting you ready for this date - do not ruin this outfit by wearing a jacket. This jacket is for Emergency. Use. Only. (Molly then gripped the jacket, shaking it at me in her clutched hand with every annunciated word). How do you expect Matthew to lust after you if you cover up your girl bits? Now. I’m going to slowly hand it over, but not willingly…”
The ironic part is… I seem to recall her telling me about a similar conversation she’d had with Jenna before her first date with Weston.
In any case, I’m pretty sure Molly was on the verge of slapping me across the face just to make her point.
Long story short: I haven’t put the jacket on for fear that if I do, she will somehow find out about it. I even sent her a SnapChat when Neve went to the bathroom, making sure to display my bare shoulders so I’d have solid proof that I followed through with her command.
Molly. Is. Such. A. Weirdo.
“I’m good, thanks. Just caught a chill.”
“I can turn the heat on if you want me to.” Matthew reaches forward to hit the heater, but I stop him.
“No, no. If I get cold I’ll put my jacket on.”
He eases back into his seat. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.” I look down and a shiny tube of lipstick in the cup holder catches my eye. Picking it up, I inspect the M.A.C tube and pull off the cap and roll my eyes.
Bright red.
Of course.
“I think your friend left this behind.” I screw the bottom of the tube and the lipstick rises. “Red. Hot fitting.”
“Throw that thing out the window.”
“No way, José. Are you nuts? This lipstick probably cost eighteen bucks and I’m keeping it, assuming she doesn’t have herpes.”
Matthew laughs, and as he’s saying, “Well, I won’t be seeing her again – like, ever - so do whatever you want with it,” my phone chimes.
It’s Neve.
Him: There’s a perfectly good explanation for my leaving.
“Well, this is interesting. Neve, that dick head, just texted me.”
“Seriously? What did he say?” Matthew is leaning towards me trying to get a look at my cell phone screen, but I tilt my body towards the window so he can’t, and compose a reply to his friend.
Me: By all means, give me your best excuse. Hanging on your every word.
Neve: I would never NEVER have left under normal circumstances
Neve: But I think Matt might be totally into you and was there to pee on his territory
Neve: I don’t poach on someone’s terrain.
I look over at Matthew, who has his eyes on the road and is pretending not to be interested. I study him anew, assessing him again in a new light. Could it be true…? There’s no freaking way.
I mean, he couldn’t possibly…
He glances over at me again, then down at the phone resting in my hand. “What does the douche bag want?”