ExtraOrdinary

14 | bridget

14 | bridget

I release a sigh and slump against the door. I remove the strap of my bag and drop it on the floor. I kick off my shoes and aggressively run my fingers through my hair, turning it into a mess of tangles and flyaways.

Stomping into the kitchen, I mutter to myself, "He is the single most flirtatious person I have ever met. Stupid male model, with his fancy Lamborghini and kiss-me eyes and seductive smile and washboard abs. I mean, did you see the inside of his car?" I grab the carton of milk, chug several swallows, and slam the refrigerator door shut. "Spotless. Freaking spotless. Like his clothes. Does the dude ever spill on himself?"

I hurl the cupboards open and closed as I gather everything for a PB&J sandwich, ranting out loud. "God, I hate him. Freaking perfection incarnate. I mean, how – how is that fair? It isn't."

Huffing, I throw the spreading knife into the sink and take my sandwich into the front room. I fling my feet onto the couch and chomp into my after-school snack. I focus on the flavors in my mouth, the peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, the jelly squeezing out the sides. Because if I don't focus on food, I'll focus on me—my acne, my pock marks, my complexion that shows every possible blemish, my stretch marks, my wonky toes, my flat chest—and I don't like focusing on me.

"I hate Chance Olson," I mumble through a mouthful of sandwich. I chew for a while. I glance at the kitchen counter, where the opened milk carton sits. I groan, unwilling to grab it yet despite my dry mouth.

"Thank god Dad isn't home." I pick a bread crumb off my stomach and eat it. "I can talk to myself without him interrupting me."

With no more food to distract me, I smell the new-leather scent of Chance's car on me. I groan louder, letting my head hang off the arm of the couch.

Lips pursed, I say, "That's what I hate the most. That spending time with Chance Olson isn't totally awful." I rub my face, blowing a raspberry.

I slap my cheeks, shake my head, and get my ass off the couch. I complete a cursory clean of the kitchen, grab my bag, and vanish to my room.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

"So did you hitch a ride with them Brewer boys?"

I shake my head. "They didn't even come to school today."

Dad grunts. "Hooky again. I should tell their mom."

I cast him a lopsided, knowing grin. "If you just want to see Donna, you can head over there any time."

He glowers at me. He shifts in his recliner. "So how'd you get home then? Adie?"

I shake my head again. "Actually – you remember that male mod—"

The doorbell rings, and Dad and I glance at each other with quirked brows. He jerks his head to the door, and I slide off the couch.

Chance Olson stands on the other side. Holding my bomber jacket in his hands and smiling that stupid smile of his that crinkles his eyes.

My lips tip into a frown and I cross my arms. "I hope you're here to return that?" I indicate the jacket.

He chuckles and holds it out. "Yeah. You left it in my car. Figured you'd want it back sooner rather than later."

I snatch it out of his grip as my dad bellows, "Who's at the door, Bridget?"

"Solicitor," I shout back, and Chance Olson cocks an eyebrow at me. Men shouldn't have such perfect, sculpted eyebrows.