“I mean, why would you put up with that when you know you deserve so much better?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I mean, do I really deserve better? Is there better than this? We grow up seeing the leaders of our nation being cheaters and liars. We hear about deception destroying marriages every day. What’s the alternative? Loneliness?”
No. Me. I’m the alternative.
But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? That would make me just as bad as Evan and every other piece of shit that’s ever hurt a woman.
“Happiness,” I say instead. “Friendship. Freedom.”
“Ha, freedom,” she half-snorts. “Is there such a thing for us? When our lives are exploited for must-see-TV?”
“Mine isn’t,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, that’s because you didn’t grow up as an Upper East Side sock puppet. You got to have a real childhood, with parents who didn’t leave you to be raised by nannies and friends that actually liked you for you, and not for who you could introduce them to.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I murmur, rolling my eyes.
“Oh yeah? Then how did you escape the madness? How did you avoid the paparazzi and fakeness and disillusions of grandeur?”
“Circumstance.”
We both shrug and go back to raking our spoons over ribbons of mint and chocolate. I don’t want to explain, and she doesn’t want to hear an explanation. We’re both comfortable in this illusion of safety and normalcy where spying cameras and incriminating tabloids don’t exist.
“Ok, if you were on a first date with a woman, would you be more impressed if she ordered a salad or a big, juicy burger?”
I raise an amused brow at her unpredictability. “Huh?”
“Salad or burger? Which girl is gonna get the goods?” she says before plopping a dollop of ice cream on her tongue. I watch with rapt fascination as she licks the spoon clean, too absorbed to even attempt to answer her question. Ally catches my gaze and puts the spoon down, a mischievous smile twitching her lips. “Focus, Drake. Answer the question or I’ll be forced to steal your ice cream stash and eat it all, locked up in my room alone.”
I snap out of my trance and give her a half shrug. “What do you expect? I’m only human.”
“Your sudden lapse of ADD has nothing to do with being human and everything to do with you being a man. So put the testosterone on ice and answer the damn question.”
“Fine, fine.” I tilt my head from side to side, contemplating my answer. “I’d have to go with burger girl.”
“Burger girl? Even though she smells like deep-fried animal carcass and has a case of the meat sweats?”
“No, no,” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Because she isn’t afraid to be what she is.”
Both brows rise in confusion. “What she is? You mean bloated?”
“No, Ally,” I smile. “Real. She’s not afraid to show me who she truly is.”
“Interesting,” she remarks, tapping her spoon against her lips. “Especially considering that getting you to show me who you are is like pulling teeth.”
I look around as if she couldn’t possibly be talking to me. “Um, I’m pretty sure you’re in my house right now. And we’ve even quasi-swapped spit by sharing ice cream. You even wore my clothes!”
“But you’re so vague! You’re like a steel vault that I’m trying to tap into with a meat mallet.”
“You have a weird obsession with meat today,” I jibe, trying to resist my grin.
“Oh, you wish, buddy,” she retorts, not even realizing just how true that statement is. Or maybe she does?
Ally props her elbow on the countertop, resting her chin in her palm with a sigh. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Because you’re full of shit.”
“Ouch,” I cringe.
“You’d totally pick salad girl. You’d pick her, bring her back to your place then play her ribs like an xylophone.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh hysterically. “Oh hell no! Definitely not.”
“All guys pick salad girl. It’s a proven fact,” she nods confidently. “Burger chicks get no love.”
What is it about this girl? She’s so cool and cute and funny, and just…real. She’s my burger girl. Everyone else is just salad—cold and unfulfilling.
We finish off the last of the ice cream before moving to the living room to channel surf. Ally snatches the remote and instantly turns it to an old episode of Friends on Nick-At-Night. It’s the episode where Monica and Chandler get married.
“I love these guys,” she remarks, settling in at my side. I stretch my arm across the back of the loveseat (don’t even get me started on that name) and she curls into me even more. Holy f*ck
. Please don’t get hard, please don’t get hard, please don’t get hard…
“Yeah? Why?” I ask, trying to distract my mind.