Mom: I got tied up at work so Uncle Larry's going to pick you up in front of the Delta drop-off. I'll swing by their house and grab you when I'm done.
I sighed and put my phone in my pocket, watching the array of mismatched suitcases ride around on the baggage carousel. Uncle Larry was a decent guy, but I just wanted to go home. I was in a shit mood after having to say goodbye to everything I cared about that morning and didn't exactly feel like being social.
Especially after a long-ass flight.
Honestly, I felt kind of bad for the frizzy-haired girl with glasses who'd been in the seat beside me, because her uptightness had challenged my stubborn douchey side and I'd been unable to hold back.
I was a total asshole.
For the entire flight.
As if hearing my thoughts, Glasses walked past me and stopped by the other end of the carousel to wait for her luggage. Her eyes were laser focused on watching for her bags, so she had no idea I was there.
I didn't mind.
There was something about her that I didn't hate looking at.
Her eyes were green and ridiculously expressive, her lips hit that sweet spot where they weren't puffy but were plump enough to distract me, and she had some curves (I was keeping my eyes on her face, though—I wasn't a perv).
But then there was the unruly hair, nervous attitude, and mouth full of silver braces.
It was like she was stuck between caterpillar and butterfly, and I couldn't look away.
She pulled a makeup tube from her pocket and raised it to her lips. Her attention didn't waver from the circling luggage as she ran the shiny gloss over her mouth, and I swear to God I could smell the strawberry from the other side of the baggage claim.
I mean, I couldn't—that wasn't possible—but I'd been so distracted by the fruity smell of her lips during the flight that it was, like, stuck in my nose.
Or something.
Glasses was controlled, uptight, and someone who overthought every minute detail in her life—my least favorite kind of girl—yet there wassomething about her....
I'm sure no one hates you.
Yeah, that was it.
There was an unexpected sweetness underneath all that prickle, like she still believed in fucking Santa Claus or something.
I'm sure no one hates you.
It'd taken me a second to realize she meant it when she said that, that she was actually literally, unbelievably trying to make me—a dickhead stranger—feel better. I knew I'd pissed her off by laughing, but it'd been the most genuine laugh I'd laughed in ages, because I'd been straight-up shocked to the core.
I'm sure no one hates you.
I watched as she shoved her lip gloss back into her pocket and pulled a tissue out of her purse. She folded the Kleenex, held it in front of her face,then pressed her lips around it. I knew she was just blotting the makeup—I wasn't an idiot, for fuck's sake—but my eyes were fixed on her shiny lips,and I wondered if she'd ever been kissed.
What she would kiss like.
Would her nervous, overthinking side be in charge, or would the bossy, controlling part of her take over? The smell of strawberries, the slick gloss,a sharp intake of breath—
"She's kind of cute-you know her?"
I turned to my left and—holy shit—my cousin Wes was grinning beside me. He'd clearly just left baseball practice (not surprising since he ate/slept/breathed baseball), because he was wearing grass-stained baseball pants, a T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off, and a backward Cubs hat, and he still had eye black smeared on his face.
"Duuuude," I said, sliding into our old handshake/hug/backslap. It was impossible not to smile, because something finally felt comfortable. "What is up?"
He pulled back and said, "My dad got sick of doing the airport loop,so he sent me in to snag you. Now tell me about this girl you're creeping on."
I don't know what I would've said to anyone else, but this was Wes.
Not only was he my favorite cousin, but he'd always been one of my bestfriends, even when we didn't talk for long periods of time. "She's the uptight weirdo I got stuck sitting next to for the entire ten-hour flight."
Wes was looking at her. "You know how I feel about weirdos."
"Yeah, well, I don't share your fondness. This one sent me to the back of the boarding line for cutting."
"No shit?" He started laughing that contagious Wes Bennett cackle and said, "No wonder you're obsessed. There's just something about a girl who hates your guts."
"I'm definitely not obsessed," I corrected him, knowing full well I was still staring at Glasses.
"Yeah, me either," Wes said sarcastically. "Now let's grab your suitcase before you get to see Dad lose his shit because he had to wait too long."
As we walked toward the other side of the carousel, I admitted, "You know, I've always been a little scared of your dad."
"Me too, Chuck," he said, using the nickname I used to hate when I was little. "The man has scared the shit out of me since the day I was born."