So, What Pick-Up Line Actually Works On You?

Ch 25- I Don't Care If They Have A Life-Sized Dylan Moran Teddy

Dedicated to Caoimhe for being my syrup.

Also dedicated to the hilarious Seamus, from whom I got the Spanish kid reference. Whenever I remember him saying that, I laugh out loud at how he says it. Also, Seamus is quite brilliant. One of the few people left who are themselves in this day and age. And he also tells people lies about me. He will tell you I'm a stripper, bang the school faculty often, make Ciara cry in Home Economics and that I have a three year old boyfriend. He will also tell you I like old people. None of that is true. :P

Chapter Twenty-Five - I Don’t Care If They Have A Fricking Life Sized Dylan Moran Stuffed Toy

The moment I saw that white building looming over me, I turned to glare at Rhys accusingly. Okay, hold it here. There I was, thinking I was finally getting a tattoo, and he brings me to the hospital? Something’s wrong in that equation.

Rhys squirmed uncomfortably under my stare, and bit his lip, “Annie, just go in for an hour, behave and then you can go see Benji?” He offered, trying to make his sentence sound like a statement, but it ended up sounding like a question.

“I don’t want to go to a crappy therapy session, be told I’m fucked, and then go do something I was actually looking forward to.” I whined, adding an unnecessary edge to my voice and scowling at Rhys who had resumed his usual passive demeanour.

“Stop being a brat and just go in. The worst that can happen is that you won’t come out alive.” Rhys attempted to joke, and I winced in reply. Joking about my approaching death wasn’t exactly an intriguing conversation topic.

“Were you dropped when you were a baby?” I laughed, not amused.

“Yes, into a pool of sexy.” Rhys deadpanned.

With a sullen sigh, I pushed myself out of Miranda’s car and launched myself into the chilly autumn weather. Rhys scrambled up after me, adjusting his jacket and pulling his jeans up hastily. That boy needed some pants that actually fit him. Rhys caught up to me in seconds, his long legs at an advantage over mine.

He whistled as we walked, I stayed silent. Rhys propped open the hospital door for me, raising an eyebrow as if challenging me to step inside the building. When I did enter the porch Rhys nearly sagged with relief, and a small smile stretched across his lips. He is such a sick bastard sometimes.

I watched as he practically skipped down the hallways, and wandered after him, a few feet behind. At one point he turned around and his grin grew before Rhys grabbed my hand and started to drag me after him. “C’mon, Annie! At least look a little happy, could be worse.” Rhys chimed, pecking the top of my head and then continuing on his casual prance around the hospital hallways. As you do.

He reminded me of the Spanish kid who was in our school last year. He would skip around happily, singing “la la la la!” And then another one of the lads would tell him to shut up. And Rhys was the Spanish kid in this instance.

Rhys towed me to the same office we went in last time, and hauled me inside forcefully. And then he practically threw me on the floor.

“You prick, play nice!” I hissed up at him, a smug grin was shot down at me and Rhys gracefully butt-planted onto the floor next to me. He even managed to make a butt-plant look beautiful. How did a diseased child like me end up with him? Why did he hang around every day, trying just to make me have a good day? Why did he like me even? Why did I love him so much? When did I realize he actually wasn’t a violent asshole?

Woah. Hold it. Let’s backtrack a bit.

Why do I love him so much?

Do I love him?