Nothing More (Landon Gibson 1)
fridge door.
“Easily.” She smiles, leaning against the counter. “And stop calling me Sophia—if I have to tell you again, I’m going to call you George Strait every time I see you.”
“George Strait?” I can’t hide my laughter. “Out of every name you could have said, that was one . . . well, that’s just random.”
She’s laughing, too, a soft laugh with sharp eyes. It suits her.
Nora-not-Sophia shrugs her shoulders. “George’s my go-to.”
I remind myself to look up George Strait to see what he looks like. I’m sure I’ve seen him before, but I haven’t listened to country since I was a kid.
Nora’s hair is in a ponytail now; long curls cover one shoulder and she’s wearing a cutoff shirt, exposing her stomach and skintight capri leggings. To be honest, before, I was too busy concentrating on my exposed skin to really notice hers.
Is she flirting with me? I can’t tell. Dakota always teased me about being clueless when it came to the advances of women. I like to think of it as uncontaminated, not inexperienced. If I were hip to all the possible advances, I would probably turn into one of those guys who are obsessed with how women perceive them. I would question everything I said or did. I might even become one of the dudes who soak their hair with gel, spiking the ends like that guy from the Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives show Tessa and Nora watched last night. I don’t want to hide my sci-fi books or pretend that I can’t recite every Harry Potter movie line for line. I don’t want to try to be cool. I’m pretty sure I’ll never be cool. I’ve never been cool, and I’m okay with that. Besides, I would rather not compete with the millions of perfect men out there and would instead keep my books on my shelves and maybe get lucky enough to find a woman who likes them, too.
Not having any blue Gatorade, I try to tempt her with my favorite, the red one. “You’re so quiet,” Nora says when I hand her the bottle. She examines it, raises a brow, and shakes her head.
I stay quiet.
“Better this than water, I suppose.” Her voice is soft, not demanding at all, despite the fact that she has a serious Gatorade-hating problem. My mind curiously wonders what other opinions she has. Are there any other sugar-saturated drinks that she holds unnecessary grudges against? I find myself wanting to know. While I’m preparing in advance my defense of all my favorite drinks that she might hate, she twists the top from the red bottle and takes a drink.
After a moment, she says, “Eh.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another swig as she turns to walk away.
She’s weird. Not in a she-lives-in-her-mom’s-basement-and-collects-Beanie-Babies weird. She’s weird as in I can’t figure out her personality, and I definitely can’t figure out what those awkward pauses or random touches are supposed to mean. I usually read people so well.
But instead of cracking the code of romance, I grab my water from the fridge, go into my room, and finish my essay, then go to bed.