He was probably soul staring me. He was probably waiting for a response that would ease his hunger. He was probably wanting too much.
But there was no probably when it came to what we both knew.
I really, insanely, undeniably hated him in the best way too.
Chapter Thirteen
HE NEEDED A SUIT. IT WAS no revelation to discover that Snake Eliot had never owned a suit in his entire seventeen years of living. Not a church suit, not a funeral suit, not a for-the-heck-of-it suit. Nothing. So that’s where I found myself Monday night after work, shopping for suits at a mom-and-pop retail store for a guy who was too pretentiously unpretentious to buy a suit worthy of his price range, so he could attend junior prom at a school he didn’t go to with his pregnant ex-girlfriend who didn’t really want him there.
“She said fine.” He laughed, modeling in front of the dressing room mirrors. He was wearing a navy blue tux that swallowed his arms, still insisting he try on sizes that were totally beyond him.
I sat in what I could only deem the girlfriend chair. It was the only explanation I could come up with for the white plush pillows and Cosmopolitan magazines on the glass table.
“How did you start it?” I asked as I flipped through an article about what men look for in the ideal woman. Because nothing said female empowerment like a commentary from the peanut gallery (see: patriarchy).
“I started it off like, ‘Hey, babe.’ She said, ‘Don’t call me that, jerk.’ Then I said, ‘I know you’re mad, and you’re not in the mood to hear from me, but I really want to take you to prom.’ She kind of got quiet and was like, ‘I’m not going. I’m too big for all of the dresses, I’ll look ugly, yada yada.’ And I was like, ‘You’re beautiful. Come on.’ And that got her, you know. Vanity and all. Then she said, ‘Fine.’ That was it. Fine. I thought I would at least get a thanks. Jeez.”
“You knock her up, tell her you have feelings for someone else, don’t show up to her birthing classes, and then ask her to prom.” I tossed the magazine on the table. “You’re lucky you got a fine.”
He spun around and held out his arms in a sweeping gesture.
“What do you think?” he asked. I couldn’t concentrate with the crooked bow tie beneath his chin.
“You look ridiculous.”
“I think I look like James Bond.”
“Maybe his deranged stepson twice removed.”
“You’re a harsh critic.” He grinned, unbuttoning the tuxedo jacket to reveal his white T-shirt underneath. “I’ll have to remember to never come to you if I need an ego boost.”
“Your ego needs no boosting, my friend.”
He stepped down from the pedestal and grabbed a hanger from the rack. “Friend, huh?” He smiled. “Is that what you’re telling yourself these days?”
He hung the jacket inside out, probably because his hair had gotten so long he couldn’t see what he was doing. Or he was just an idiot. There was ample evidence for both.
“Would you call it differently?”
He took a seat in the chair beside me. He still wore the baggy tuxedo pants with his tattered white T-shirt, holding the fluffy throw pillow in his lap. Despite his shaggy hair, I could see his eyes sparkling as they teased me. He was some piece of work (see: smug bastard).
“See the thing is, I’ve gone above and beyond to make my feelings remarkably clear. However, you seem to hate me in fluctuating patterns, which lead me to rocky conclusions, which, in the grand scheme of things, don’t matter at all. Because whether you hate me in the bad way or you hate me in the good way, you’re still thinking of me. So I believe that we’re either A) very passionate friends or B) masochistic lovers.” He smirked with desperate flirtation. “I prefer B myself.”
“I prefer C) try on another tux or I’m leaving.”
“That wasn’t an option.”
“I’m not playing this game.” I jumped from the seat and walked to the rack of hideous and oversize suits. I grabbed the one he let me pick out that was in his size. “Try this one. Maybe you’ll get lucky and won’t look like the before shot on a Weight Watcher’s infomercial.”
“Ha. Ha.” He strolled to where I stood and stepped as close to me as he possibly could without completely needle-popping my personal bubble. “Masochistic lovers it is.” He took the hanger and disappeared into the dressing room.
When he returned, I barely recognized him. He was in formfitting black, with a long, skinny tie and sleeves that accentuated his arms. I could tell he’d messed with his hair, because it kind of had this swoopy thing going on that wasn’t there before. His stupid tattoo was covered, too. For once, he looked like the preppy rich boy he was trying so hard not to be.
“You can’t tell me I don’t look good in this one.”
“It’s only because I picked it out. I have impeccable taste.”
“I have to give you credit,” he said, checking himself out in the wall mirror. “Carla won’t be able to keep her hands off of me.”
“Only if she’s strangling you.”
He laughed. “She’s not as violent as you are.”
“I bet you just adore that about her.”
“It’s a perk.” He glanced back at me with a playful smile. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous?”
“Yeah, because I’m going to prom with Carla. Because that was your brilliant idea, not mine.”
I rolled my eyes. “I couldn’t care less what you do or don’t do with Carla.”
“Reeeeally?” He stretched the word as far as it would reach. “So if Carla and I go to prom, and we dance to some sappy song, and she starts getting emotional as we reminisce about the night we met, and we start making out and professing our undying devotion, that would be perfectly okay with you?”
“First of all, sloppy drunk sex is hardly something to reminisce about. Second of all, good luck slow dancing with her jumbo belly between you. Third of all, the whole public-make-out thing is gross.” I stood up and tossed my messenger bag over my shoulder, fed up with his grins and suits and sad flirtation attempts. “Pay for your damn suit.”
As I turned to leave, I heard him yell, “Wait!” He walked to me with a sort of pained look in his eyes. I didn’t care why. “I just want you to know that if the situation were reversed, it would drive me crazy seeing you with someone else.”
“Then you’re a sucky person,” I snapped. “Because I’m not doing that to you. I’m putting myself second to do right by people I don’t even like just so I can . . .”
“Just so you can what?”
“Nothing.”
He touched my cheek with the back of his hand. It was a simple gesture, one I’d seen him try on Carla a thousand times. I should’ve shoved him away. I should’ve told him to screw off like I wanted to that first time I met him at the pharmacy. But I never could because he was Snake. Infuriatingly persistent, charmingly sincere Snake.