Read Complicated Girl Online

Authors: Mimi Strong

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #New Adult & College, #Romantic Comedy

Complicated Girl (4 page)

BOOK: Complicated Girl
11.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

But now, guys seem more choosey. It’s like there are two types of girls: the marrying kind, and the okay-for-now kind.

I look down at my toast and tap the crumbs onto the plate, fighting down a wave of pathetic sorrow. I’m having breakfast alone right now because I’m not the marrying kind.

Last night, I met two different cute guys, and I struck out with both of them.

I didn’t realize my situation was this bad. When Luca was first chasing after Tina, he and I got along well. I was never after him for myself, of course, but I’d indulged in a fantasy that he might have a brother… perhaps a slightly less perfect, less handsome, less amazing version of himself.

Unfortunately, though, Luca doesn’t have a brother. That’s why the only sweet little kisses I’ll be getting in the morning, for the rest of my days, will be coming from a whiskered companion who licks his own butt.

Fine. I accept my fate.

I clear up the breakfast dishes and check the time. I wonder what Drew, the new guy I drove away from the group, is doing right now. Is he sorting through his ties for one he likes? In my mind, I can see him shaving his perfect, handsome face, then pulling on a crisp, clean dress shirt.

I wonder what kind of job he has, and why he came to our group. Since he’s probably not coming back, I’ll never know.

What can I do? What can I do to stop driving guys away?

My eyes dart over, seemingly with a mind of their own, to the business card I took from Duncan’s antique shop.

I’ll start making amends.
That’s what I’ll do.

Tina will be opening the flower shop today, so I’ve got the morning free, and I’ll make amends with Duncan.

It can’t hurt to
try
to be nice, can it?

Chapter 5

I walk into Sweet Caroline Antiques, where I’m shocked to find Duncan chatting with the actor, Matthew McConnaughey.

Matthew grins and says, “All right, all right!”

When he turns to look me up and down, I realize the guy is
not
the famous actor, but someone who looks an awful lot like him.

Duncan says, “Thanks, Cooper. I know Charlie said to forget about finding her, but he doesn’t mean it. I’ll tell him the good news tonight.”

“Road trip,” the guy says, grinning.

Duncan gives me a polite nod, not acknowledging that I’m anything more to him than a potential customer.

I walk over to a cabinet full of tea cups and pretend to be interested, while listening in.

Duncan and the guy talk for a few for minutes about some girl they’ve tracked down in Arizona, then the not-Matthew-McConnaughey guy leaves.

I turn around and say, “Private detective?”

Duncan puffs out his chest and runs his hand through his long, sandy brown hair. He looks cuter than I remembered, like someone who should be on a surfboard, not standing behind the counter of a little antiques store.

“Who wants to know?” he answers, his tone light and teasing. “Do you need to hire a detective to search for your manners?”

I keep staring at his face, until I realize what’s different. “No, but there has been a mysterious goatee disappearance.”

Duncan rubs his smooth chin. “I’d been meaning to shave it off anyway. Don’t think I did it on account of you saying my mouth looked like a you-know-what.”

“A lady’s private business.”

He winces. “Regardless, I’m glad you stopped in. I don’t know what I said or did last night that set you off, but I’m
the guy
, so whatever it was, I’m sure you think it was my fault.”

I walk around some oak tables, getting closer to the counter where Duncan’s standing, but I keep moving past him, as though my primary motivation is shopping.

I run my fingers over some honey-stained oak. “We can split the blame, fifty-fifty.”

“Sure. Let’s try to be friends, since we’re practically neighbors.”

“I was joking about the gay husband thing, but that wasn’t right of me. I don’t care what you are.” I keep moving deeper into the shop, where the smell of fresh varnish and furniture polish is stronger. “My family raised me and my sister to accept all people, and I do. Not just because of how I was raised, but because it’s only right. If I ever joke about something, I’m joking about the stereotype itself, and not the person.”

“I’m not gay,” he says. “But between you and me, if a couple of guys with expensive shoes come into my shop and get excited over redecorating an entire house, I do start to speak…
a little more like this
.” His voice goes up and becomes more precise. “
That sideboard absolutely must not be split up from the matching table.

“You’re bad,” I say, laughing. I keep looking around, and Duncan busies himself with some paperwork behind the counter.

After a minute, he says, completely out of the blue, “You’re pretty.”

“What?” I look around to see if someone else has come in the door.

“I have an eye for beauty,” he explains. “I go to auctions all the time, and I always get the deals. The key is being able to spot value, being able to tell trash from the real deal.”

I frown at him, unsure if I should be offended or flattered. “So, you’re saying I’m not trash?”

“I’m saying you’re the real deal, and you’re pretty. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”

His words are probably said with a kind intent, but they still sting to hear. I snap back with, “You’re not my type, either. I like a guy with balls.”

His mouth opens, like he’s about to say something brutal—something I probably deserve to hear—but then he stops himself. “Good luck with that,” he says softly as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

I cross my arms, hunch over to make myself small, and weave my way around the furniture. “This place is like a maze,” I mutter under my breath.

“Good to see you,” he calls after me. “I’m heading out of town for a few days, but I’ll see you around.”

I drop venom-filled words like water bombs. “Not if I see you first!”

Chapter 6

I am ashamed of how desperately I want to be loved.

Six days have gone by since my failed apology to Duncan, and I still feel lousy about my inability to be nice.

It’s Tuesday, and I’ve taken the entire day off work, just so I can make ridiculously complicated treats for the self-help group tonight.

I’m being silly. Those carboholics would be more than happy with a simple jelly roll, or cookies. But here I am, slaving away in my mother’s kitchen all day, making
petit fours
—tiny French tea cakes with delicate flower decorations.

I’ve been planning this since last Wednesday, when my attempts to make amends with Duncan at the antiques store blew up in my face.

I keep trying to procrastinate my anxiety, but I can’t push away these thoughts about Duncan. (Duncan, then Drew, then Duncan again. I’m cursed by problems with D-named guys. Must be something in my horoscope.)

Now Duncan’s in my head. He’s not paying rent in there, but he’s my noisy tenant and I can’t kick him out.

Duncan’s words keep ringing in my ears.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”

Whenever someone asks you to not take something the wrong way, they should have the decency to explain exactly how you’re supposed to take it the
right
way. He said:
not my type.
What the hell? Is that supposed to be a compliment? It’s not like Duncan said,
“I like wrinkly old ladies with big hairy moles, therefore you’re not my type.”

He said he had an eye for beauty, or value, or something like that. I don’t remember that part. Just the kick in the ovaries that was his
not-my-type
rejection.

I’m finally finished toiling over the
petit fours
, and I carefully transfer them over to a serving tray. Now I have a new problem. They’re too perfect. Everyone will think I bought them from a bakery. Growling with impatience, I grab some leftover icing and petals, and smudge up a third of them so they don’t look so perfect.

“Meenie, you are unhinged,” I mutter to myself.

I get ready for group, rummaging through my closet for a fresh shirt. I want something with attitude, so I grab my trusty ‘I Love Beijing’ shirt. It looks like a classic ‘I Love New York’ shirt, only instead of NY, it says BJ.

Yes, I’m going to self-help group wearing an
I ♥ BJ
shirt. That’s just how I roll!

To class myself up, I spend some extra minutes on makeup.

I’m going to come clean tonight. I’m going to throw myself upon the mercy of the group, and tell them the whole truth. I won’t tell some edited half-truths about why my interactions with guys end in disaster. I’ll admit that I talk way too much about guys’ balls—specifically, their lack of them.

Then Feather will give me a diagnosis—probably some therapy crap about blah-blah-who-knows—and then I’ll get a list of what to do, and I’ll cure myself of talking about balls.

It’s going to be great! I feel better already. This is totally going to work.

I’m the first to arrive at room 3C, so I start setting out chairs. Feather comes in next, floating on a cloud of that special beauty and happiness that only natural blondes who are married to sexy hotel owners have.

“How are you doing, Meenie?” she asks, looking over the tiny square cakes set up on the snack table.

“Pretty good.”

She tucks her perfect, platinum blond hair behind one ear. “The last time I saw you bring something so elaborate, your grandmother had just passed away. Is there anything you’d like to talk about before the others get here?”

I stare at her perfect lips and think about the rumor I heard—that she met her husband when he hired her to kiss him. Her kissing magically cured him in some unspecified way I spend
far
too much time thinking about. She’s so pretty. I’m not into girls, but damn it, I’d probably kiss her too, if she felt it would help my situation.

“Do you think my name is a problem?” I set out the final chair and stand behind it, resting my palms on the back. “I’m just thinking that people take on the qualities of their name. You
look
like a feather. You’re dainty and wispy. You’re soft and soothing to people, but you still have that core of strength.”

“That’s an interesting idea.” She sets out the sign-in book and begins circling the chairs, adjusting each one with precision.

I take a seat in the circle and wait for her to answer my question. Feather likes to take her time and think before she responds. Her answers are always worth the wait. I look down at her sparkling engagement ring and wedding band. Feather’s definitely the marrying kind, so I don’t know if she can even relate to me on a personal level, but maybe she’s had other clients like me.

“Would you prefer that I call you Megan?” she asks.

“I think it might be too late. Everyone knows me as Meenie, and I’d have to constantly correct everyone, and that’s not very nice, so there goes that whole idea. Forget I asked. Never mind.”

She purses her lips and gives me an amused smile. “It’s always interesting how people answer their own questions.”

“Do you think I’m mean because of my name?”

“I don’t think you’re mean.” She takes a seat in her usual spot, with her back to the door, and crosses her legs. She quickly adjusts the loose-fitting sweater that falls down over the waist of her long skirt. It’s a tiny gesture, but gives away everything.

BOOK: Complicated Girl
11.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Dirty by Debra Webb
Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn
Titan by Joshua Debenedetto
Winter Kills by Richard Condon
A Widow Plagued by Allie Borne
Weirder Than Weird by Francis Burger
Mirror of Shadows by T. Lynne Tolles
Close Remembrance by Zaires, Anna