She’s a master of keeping a straight face, so I have no idea if she’s full of shit or serious. She has to be full of shit.
I go with argument number two when I can’t decide.
“I fell through ice, was saved by people who may or may not have been debating horrifying things that included my womb, shamelessly snuggled a complete stranger while I was naked just to steal his heat, and woke up to a girl hovering over me and asking me if I was a screamer or not. Then that girl disappeared when I couldn’t form words, because I’m not a screamer—I’m a freezer,” I tell Reese as she finishes up her makeup. “She literally disappeared. Like out the door and vanished by the time I raced out to ask her their names.”
“And?” she asks like it’s no big deal while lining her lips.
“And? And?” I ask incredulously as I sip my hot cocoa, still shivering and not fully rewarmed from the detoured dunk in the lake.
When she just stares in the mirror at me like she needs more than a rhetorical parroting, I shake my head.
“I almost died yesterday, and you really think I want to go back outside after that? On a date with some stranger from this town after what I witnessed yesterday?” I go on.
“You’re being entirely too judgmental. Sounding a little bit like Mom,” she fires off, using the Mom card just to make me do what she wants.
“I sound nothing like Mom. I told you about the breeding argument, right?”
“So one lady was crazy and the girl didn’t want you to scream. They saved your life, delivered you safely home without anything in your womb, and then looked after you until you woke up. They might have been odd, but they were genuinely nice, it seems. So, yes, you sound exactly like Mom.”
I groan when she starts making me second guess myself. “They should have sent you to law school instead of letting you get a generic business degree,” I point out.
“My degree is not generic,” she states dryly. “Quit changing the subject. We’re only here for a few weeks. And these people are carrying around flip phones attached to their belts. For once, I’m not worried about seeing our faces splashed all over social media by whatever twat-chasers are coming to use our brand to spike their following. It’s a little liberating.”
“Now you’re the one distracting me by saying something about flip-phones. Do they still make them?” I ask idly, glancing out the window to see if these supposed dates have miraculously found this hard-to-find cabin.
Hopefully, they won’t find it, and we’ll be able to just sit by the fire and box up more of Gran’s old things.
“This town must be keeping the business alive,” she says as I glance at the time. “I planned on Googling him and checking his social media to prep for our date, but I don’t think the internet knows he exists.”
“Everyone can be Googled,” I answer absently.
“Feel free to try. And I know Hale Vincent is his real name, because the angry diner man kept shouting it and threatening him to stay away from the ‘fancy booth.’ I’m still wracking my brain as to why it’s called that.”
I can’t even with her right now. It’s like she’s not putting forth any real effort to make sense anymore.
Five more minutes before they’re considered late, and then I can ditch this idea of a date, since I have a no-late-dates rule my sister knows all too well. It’s how I get out of ninety percent of my mother’s setups.
“Hale is really sort of odd, but it’s cute how hard he was trying. Yet it wasn’t sleazy. It’s hard to find cute guys who also happen to look as fine as he does these days,” she goes on.
“And his brother?”
“They’re not identical, but the brother is totally hot too. I’m not sure if he’s sweet-cute, though. Hopefully, he is. Fun for the trip, at least. I thought this place was going to be loaded with old people only.”
She’s always confusing when describing people. And condescending as well, though she’s completely oblivious to how some things sound. She honestly has no idea when she’s being a douche.
Then again, I have the exact same issue. It’s hard to deprogram one’s self even after becoming aware that you’ve been raised to be a total douche. Reese and I only recently were jarred into self-awareness, hence the reason we’re finally in our late Gran’s house, spending some time getting to know a woman our family decided wasn’t good enough.
“We’ve never really taken a fun trip and met boys before,” Reese prattles on, drawing me out of my own head.
“We’ve taken fun trips together and didn’t need boys,” I point out, flipping through a magazine.