"Wouldn't it ruin the fun to tell you?" he shot back. "Is she always the murder victim?"
"Peyton is a... unique creature," I said, smiling. "She once hanged herself so convincingly, I rushed to her body to help her down before realizing she was fine. And we're not going to talk about the time she found fake prop glass, and had it poking out of her eye. So, yeah, you can go ahead and get creative. She will eat it up. I can give her your number to get in touch, if you want," I offered.
"'Okay," he agreed, sounding indifferent. "Won't I need yours?" he added a moment later, his voice an odd, croaking sound. Like maybe he was uncomfortable asking. You'd think someone as hot as he was would be used to asking women for their numbers. But maybe that just wasn't his thing. I had been under the impression that it was most people's thing, getting whatever tail they could. It was actually kind of refreshing if that wasn't always the case, though.
"Are you asking me for my number, Finn?" I asked, seeking eye contact that he struggled to hold for a moment as he, it seemed, gathered his nerve.
"I am," he agreed.
"Then maybe you should ask for it," I suggested. It wasn't nice to push. But not many people would call me nice anyway. And, besides, a selfish part of me just really wanted to hear him say it.
"Can I have your number, Poppy?" he asked, rising to the challenge.
"Promise not to send me any unsolicited dick pics?" I asked. "The solicited ones are fine," I added, getting a snorting noise out of him, and a smile that was more than a hint of one; it actually made his eyes crinkle a bit.
"Promise," he agreed, reaching for his phone, messing with it for a second, then passing it to me.
"Oh, that was a dumb move," I said, tapping in my number, then scrolling right to his browser history. "My nosy ass likes to snoop," I clarified at his confused look.
To my surprise, though, he didn't tense up as I whipped around his phone. Usually by this point, someone was trying to snatch it out of my hands.
"You're not bothered by this?" I asked as I dramatically held my finger over his picture gallery button.
"I have nothing to hide," he told me, shrugging.
"I will see about that," I told him with a smile before starting to scroll through his pictures. "So, like, do you get up super early, or do you go to bed really late?" I asked. "Half of these pictures are sunrises."
"I don't sleep much," he admitted, making me glance up just quickly enough to catch something guarded come over his eyes.
"Bad memories?" I guessed, thinking of how he'd discussed his time in the military earlier.
"You could say that," he agreed. "Aw. So you do have a found family," I said when I came to a load of pictures that seemed to take place at a child's birthday party. There were several happy-looking couples, and a whole slew of children gathered around. "God, are you the only single one?" I asked, grimacing.
"No."
"You are single, though, right?" I clarified. I hadn't come across any pictures of a woman or any couple selfies, but some dudes didn't keep that kind of stuff in their phones.
"Always."
"That's a weird response," I said, looking up at him when I got to the end of the pictures. There wasn't a single dick pic. And I couldn't tell if I was relieved or a little disappointed in that fact. "Do you not believe in relationships? Which is fine. I know a few women who are permanently single with just a few maintenance men to handle her tune-ups."
Again, I got that slightly-more-than-a-smile smiles.
"I don't believe someone like me can have a successful one," he told me.
Right.
Because of his past. Because of his bad memories. Because of his anxiety.
I think we all amplified our flaws as an excuse to why we were unlovable.
"Sometimes your imperfections were what people love most about you. Except open-mouth chewers. No one loved that particular flaw," I declared. "Do you chew with your mouth open?"
"I do not."
"Good. Then you never know," I told him.
"Why are you single?" he asked, clearly wanting the attention off of him.
"Well," I said, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling "I don't tend to give them much of a chance. If they somehow don't back off with all my hissing and snapping—"
"And body spray threats," he filled in for me.
"Yes, that too, then I figure they are really creepy and dangerous," I told him, shrugging.
"So you just don't give them a chance."
"Exactly."
"But you're giving me your number," he said, taking his phone back as I handed it to him.
To that, I looked him over, then shrugged.