I can’t recall a single time any of them have been raked through the mud because of their face.
And yeah, I read the comments, too, cringing when I got to the one about Miranda being ugly. Match made in heaven, the trolls declared, and my blood boiled. Who the fuck do they think they are calling her ugly? Miranda is gorgeous—I’m the lucky bastard she went out with and then this shit happens to her?
Worst part is other people agreed with the asshole who made the original comment.
The whole situation kills me and I know she’s hurting because I could read it in her words, could see it as she pleaded with me to call her back.
You’re a pussy, Harding. You don’t deserve a girl like Miranda—smart, beautiful, and full of spunk. I pulled a dick move that wasn’t justified and now there’s no going back.
“Did you just call me a pussy?” Wallace asks beside me as we shove through the giant swinging doors separating the tunnel from the parking lot.
“No, I was calling myself a pussy.”
A solid hand gets clamped on my shoulder and I glance down at it, alarmed. Great, he’s comforting me now? Ugh.
“Don’t get so down on yourself, bro—you know how the paps are giant wankers. They want a reaction out of you and they’re not going to get it.”
They’re not. Any reaction or statement of my own will trigger a feeding frenzy of articles and then they’d really be all over my ass in search of a bigger story.
No. Best keep my lips shut, despite Phil wanting to issue a statement about how Miranda is an old friend and we were just having dinner to catch up.
Spread more lies? I don’t think so.
“I couldn’t care less about them printing shit about me—I’m used to it,” I lie. “It’s the whole shit about Miranda. What fucking right do they have to call her ugly?”
Wallace shakes his head from side to side, looking morose. “Don’t know, man. That’s fucked up. We both know she’s a little hottie.” He pauses, and I feel his sidelong glance. “I tried to bang her, but she wasn’t interested.”
“Gee, thanks for bringing that up.”
“What! I’m trying to make a point here—she wasn’t interested in me and I’m clearly a fine specimen.” Buzz Wallace thinks he’s the real life version of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast and I’ve never been one to argue with him. “No one can resist me, except her. I haven’t been shot down like that in years.”
“Alright, I get it.”
“No—you don’t get it.” Our bags are slung over our shoulders and he hefts his. “She went out with you. Not me—you.”
Yeah…why is that?
He reads minds now too, apparently. “Because beauty is only skin deep and when she looks at you, she sees what she likes. Blah blah blah, attracted to your personality.” Wallace stops in front of the gate that leads to the parking lot, bracing both hands on my shoulders and looking me in the eye. “Dude, listen to me. She likes you—attraction doesn’t last long if there isn’t chemistry to back it up. Did you feel chemistry with her?”
I give a stiff nod. “Yes.”
“Were you worried about what everyone might think when you were out with her or were you just there in the moment with her?”
“Jesus, did you go to shrink school over the weekend and get your psychology degree? What is this, a therapy session?”
Yes, I realize how dumb that question sounds coming out of my mouth.
Wallace does, too, and he rolls his eyes. “Just answer the question, asshole—did you feel a connection?”
I shrug his hands off my shoulders, irritated. “Yes, obviously—god, Dad.” I sound like a teenage girl annoyed with her mother. Or Napoleon Dynamite feeding his llama Tina.
“So why are you acting like this?”
He will not climb down out of my ass about this. “Why do you care?” I move past him, toward the exit gate, shooting a terse smile toward the security guard, Stan.
“Because I’m your best friend.”
There he goes again with that best friend business! I’m telling you, all he ever does is raid my fridge and show up unexpectedly and—
Shit. Those sound like things a best friend would do. Plus, he seems to have my back considering he will not quit riding me about my relationships—or lack thereof.
“What do you want from me?” I shoot the barb over my shoulder at Wallace as Stan releases the lock from the metal gate, parking lot in the forefront.
“I want you to be happy, bro.”
Happy.
I thought I was happy—back when life was fucking simple and everyone didn’t want something from me. I was happy when I played baseball because I loved it, not because it paid the bills for the big, dumb, empty mansion I felt pressured to buy. I was happy when I could see my parents more often. I was happy when my friends from home could afford to come sit in the stands and watch me play in our hometown, when they didn’t have to hop on a damn jet to see me.
I was happy after our date when I thought Miranda liked me.
Liked.
Why the past tense, Harding? I can almost hear Buzz asking me the question, though he’s now a few feet behind me, severely lagging.
I’m about to pivot around to chew his ass out when a flash of pink catches my eye.
Miranda?
In the parking lot?
I squint, focusing on that pink dot ahead of me, the face and the hair and she’s leaning against a white car, wringing her hands nervously.
Suddenly, Wallace is beside me. “What…? Is that…” He shields his eyes with his free palm, though he’s wearing a ball cap and can probably see her just fine. “Oh my goodness, look. Is that…could it be? Is
