Read Online Just A Small Town Girl: A New Adult Romantic Comedy by Jessica Pine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Pine
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her bill, right? And holy shit - she looked terrible - all kinda drugged and puffy. She was trying to talk to the receptionist and her voice was coming out all wrong because of the anesthetic..."
Lacie laughed.
"It was bad," I said. "And she took this wad of cotton out of the side of her mouth so she could talk better and there was all this blood. At this point my brother's white as a fucking sheet and I'm probably the same color. So the dentist comes out, looks at me and Bryan and says 'I'm seeing double,' – like ha ha, never heard that one before - and then he says 'Which one of you is going first?'"
"Did he chicken out?" she asked.
I shook my head. "He did not. He got down off the chair and said 'Me. I'm the oldest. I'll go first.'"
"Some brother," she said. "What does he do now?"
"Military. Or was. He's a vet. Afghanistan. Baby brother Brad is a certified genius - he's on a full ride scholarship at MIT."
"Wow."
"Yeah. Maybe I did suffer for being the middle kid - squished between the war hero and the future nerd overlord. I'm kind of the family fuck-up."
"I don't know," she said. "You could be a lot worse. You could be whoring yourself out for meth and living from one dumpster dive to another."
"I guess," I said. Or I could be dealing quantities of weed that were felonious even by Vermont's relatively relaxed standards, or contemplating my imminent demise at the hands of a psychotic, hypoglycemic Hell's Angel named Bob. On reflection I was lurching into full on black-sheep territory.
She ordered apple pie and I had a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. I kind of regretted not asking her if she wanted to go anywhere fancier but I couldn't think of anywhere in town. I wanted to continue the conversation but there was nowhere to go on the subject of family, at least not without picking at old wounds. There was no casual way to ask "So how did your Mom and brother die?” so I didn't.
It seemed the longer we sat quiet the bigger the silence swelled between us. I swear I saw her eyes dart to the spine of the book in her bag, as if she was thinking of cracking it open and shutting me out. I wished we were back behind the counter, because at least then we had a way of communicating, even if it was just an elaborate form of dry humping.
This isn't you, I wanted to shout, and then realized I had no idea what was her. I didn't even know her birthday.
"So when were you born?" I don't know where that question came from. It just fell out of my mouth. Oh God.
She was looking at me with a kind of smug amusement, like I'd proved her point about us being awkward and weird with one another. "That's a very David Copperfield kind of a question," she said.
"Huh? Magical?"
"No, not the magician. The book. Dickens. That's how David Copperfield starts - I am born."
"Oh," I said. "Right. I've never read that. You like magic though?"
She scrunched up her nose. "Not really. I'm sorry - I've spent so many years reading books that sometimes it feels like my only frame of reference."
"Did you ever think about what you wanted to do after college?" I asked.
Lacie sighed. "I...really didn't. I thought for a while I'd like to go to grad school - Masters, Doctorate. Full-on academia, but that takes money we don't have and quite frankly if my head is this far up my ass after a Bachelors can you imagine what I'd be like after a Masters? I'd be wearing my gall-bladder as a hat."
I was surprised by the speed she thawed. "You're not. You're cool. You're good."
"I'm not. I'm an idiot. It wasn't a year since the ass had fallen clean out of the entire economy and I took an Arts degree? That's a special kind of stupid all on its own. Come on - that's an eye watering lack of foresight right there."
"But were you good at it?" I said.
"I was," she said, with another sigh. "I was. I translated the Battle of Maldon and knew all the historical contexts to the poems of W.B. Yeats and where
Lacie laughed.
"It was bad," I said. "And she took this wad of cotton out of the side of her mouth so she could talk better and there was all this blood. At this point my brother's white as a fucking sheet and I'm probably the same color. So the dentist comes out, looks at me and Bryan and says 'I'm seeing double,' – like ha ha, never heard that one before - and then he says 'Which one of you is going first?'"
"Did he chicken out?" she asked.
I shook my head. "He did not. He got down off the chair and said 'Me. I'm the oldest. I'll go first.'"
"Some brother," she said. "What does he do now?"
"Military. Or was. He's a vet. Afghanistan. Baby brother Brad is a certified genius - he's on a full ride scholarship at MIT."
"Wow."
"Yeah. Maybe I did suffer for being the middle kid - squished between the war hero and the future nerd overlord. I'm kind of the family fuck-up."
"I don't know," she said. "You could be a lot worse. You could be whoring yourself out for meth and living from one dumpster dive to another."
"I guess," I said. Or I could be dealing quantities of weed that were felonious even by Vermont's relatively relaxed standards, or contemplating my imminent demise at the hands of a psychotic, hypoglycemic Hell's Angel named Bob. On reflection I was lurching into full on black-sheep territory.
She ordered apple pie and I had a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. I kind of regretted not asking her if she wanted to go anywhere fancier but I couldn't think of anywhere in town. I wanted to continue the conversation but there was nowhere to go on the subject of family, at least not without picking at old wounds. There was no casual way to ask "So how did your Mom and brother die?” so I didn't.
It seemed the longer we sat quiet the bigger the silence swelled between us. I swear I saw her eyes dart to the spine of the book in her bag, as if she was thinking of cracking it open and shutting me out. I wished we were back behind the counter, because at least then we had a way of communicating, even if it was just an elaborate form of dry humping.
This isn't you, I wanted to shout, and then realized I had no idea what was her. I didn't even know her birthday.
"So when were you born?" I don't know where that question came from. It just fell out of my mouth. Oh God.
She was looking at me with a kind of smug amusement, like I'd proved her point about us being awkward and weird with one another. "That's a very David Copperfield kind of a question," she said.
"Huh? Magical?"
"No, not the magician. The book. Dickens. That's how David Copperfield starts - I am born."
"Oh," I said. "Right. I've never read that. You like magic though?"
She scrunched up her nose. "Not really. I'm sorry - I've spent so many years reading books that sometimes it feels like my only frame of reference."
"Did you ever think about what you wanted to do after college?" I asked.
Lacie sighed. "I...really didn't. I thought for a while I'd like to go to grad school - Masters, Doctorate. Full-on academia, but that takes money we don't have and quite frankly if my head is this far up my ass after a Bachelors can you imagine what I'd be like after a Masters? I'd be wearing my gall-bladder as a hat."
I was surprised by the speed she thawed. "You're not. You're cool. You're good."
"I'm not. I'm an idiot. It wasn't a year since the ass had fallen clean out of the entire economy and I took an Arts degree? That's a special kind of stupid all on its own. Come on - that's an eye watering lack of foresight right there."
"But were you good at it?" I said.
"I was," she said, with another sigh. "I was. I translated the Battle of Maldon and knew all the historical contexts to the poems of W.B. Yeats and where
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