Never Been Kissed(4)

By: C.M Kars

My hands are fists at my sides, and my jaw hurts where I’ve grinded my teeth. I don’t know why I’m so mad. “Okay,” I say, trying to stare through him, enjoying the blurriness of his features without my glasses on. “Do you even know what my shirt’s about?”

“Babe.” So much badass and attitude injected in that one word, it’s a wonder my panties haven’t floated down to my ankles. The guy could be even more badass than Jax Teller and Dean Winchester combined.

He’s not for you. He’s just like my buddies, just like Josh, Tommy, Eli and Alex.

“Don’t call me babe,” I say, trying to be cool and badass like Jo Harvelle. Jo Harvelle who wasn’t flustered or anything when she almost-kissed Dean, and knows her way around a knife and rifle.

Hunter smirks. “Do you like apples?” he asks, mimicking a perfect Southie accent. The man has seen Good Will Hunting. I will not swoon, I will not swoon. Be professional, be a badass. Yeah, right. Rocky’s doing victory laps in my head, ghost-jabbing the air because Hunter likes one of my shirts. I’m pathetic.

But he knows Good Will Hunting.

I grin, hold my hand out for a shake. “I’m Sera. Nice to meet you.” I wiggle my fingers when he takes too long. “Most people shake the other person’s hand when it’s offered to them.”

He looks down from my face to my hand and back up again. Just when I start to feel dumb about the whole thing, he puts us palm to palm and pumps up and down.

“Hunter,” he says, letting me go.

I just held his hand. Fine, for like three point four seconds, but I did it! And I’m not even blushing! Score!

“HUNTER!” A female’s voice rings out from behind us. I don’t cringe, instead, keep my smile on my face. I’m smart; I’m intelligent. He commented on the awesomeness of my shirt. That’s all, he just made my day. But this is reality.

“See you later,” I say, stepping into the elevator once the doors open. I turn my attention back to my iPod, replaying 1D.

Glancing up before the doors close, I look at him, rubbing the back of his neck, staring at his feet. In my head, Hunter would look at me longingly, and maybe even tell me he likes more than just my nerdy shirts. He’d tell me I’m stunning or one of those words that aren’t so overused like beautiful. He’d tell me I’m funny and awesome, and badass and he wants me in his life based on this short encounter.

It doesn’t necessarily hurt when he does none of these things. It doesn’t hurt when he turns and walks towards the voice. Probably the same girl he was with last week who wants breakfast in bed.

It doesn’t hurt, but it sure is disappointing. Books have ruined me for life.


“Broski!” I yell at Katie as she comes into my spankin’ new apartment. I try to see it like a stranger would, but Katie’s my best friend so that POV doesn’t work so well.My walls are slate gray, but the pictures make the room, not the ornate glass dining room table that I spent a fortune on, or the badass leather couches, or not even the beige zebra-striped carpet in my living room.

Nope, the pictures tell people who I am. I found a black and white series of super heroes that are simple, elegant and so amazing I just had to have them. Over my leather couch, I’ve got portraits of Batman, Superman and Loki keeping watch over my apartment.

Katie sets her groceries for the night on my counter, insisting she’ll make me dinner. I love to bake, but dinner? No. It doesn’t happen. I’ve been surviving on peanut butter and banana sandwiches for the past week. Something about using the stove to cook a full-blown meal scares me.I tried to learn from my Mom, a Greek displaced to Montreal, trying to keep track of recipes in a notebook. I hated it when she used to eye-ball spices and proportions. Or how she just knew what spices go with what, and just started adding a bit more vinegar to a salad, some oregano and a splash of oil to a salad. What if it doesn’t come out right the first time? Wouldn’t you just keep adding oil then vinegar then more spices in a vicious never-ending cycle?

“I’m loving this place, Sera. Really proud of you for buying it.” I get a full Katie-smile, the kind with all white teeth that have been perfected with years and years of dental assistance.She looks around again, taking in all the furniture, the artwork.

My throat gets thick, and I just end up nodding fast. I stare down at my hands, willing my eyes to stop being so bright.

“Took some ovaries to get out your house and do what you’re doing. Even with all the shit that went down, you’re making a life here. And for all that...” There’s a plastic ruffling as she searches through her bags. “I brought wine. Please tell me you have a bottle opener. I forgot to bring one from home.”

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