99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

14 | The Fourteenth Reason

It's my school vacation, and so far I've spent the whole time either performing, practicing, or writing. Not very vacation-y, to say the least. But I love this chapter, and, after several attempts at writing it, so can you!

The Fourteenth Reason

“Just so you know,” Thatcher grumbled, fumbling with one of those huge key rings, the kind that every janitor puts on their Christmas list, “that wasn’t exactly my shining moment.”

I sure hoped not. One hand was already reaching up to probe the bump that had formed just above my hairline. “Really.”

He nodded absently, desperately trying to shove a silver key into the lock. No such luck, seeing as it was both backwards and upside down. “But, at the same time, it isn’t the most demeaning thing to happen to me. I once ate an entire jar of marmalade in one sitting. And there was that time I broke your nose.”

The marmalade thing was just gross. And sad. So I felt obliged to make some lame attempt at consoling him. “Almost broke my nose. Didn’t need an ambulance, remember?”

Thatcher thought about this, scratching his head with – hopefully the right – key. “Huh. I guess your right.”

“It was swollen, though.”

He grinned. “And purple.”

“Change the subject,” I said with a grimace.

For some backwards reason, the idea of my nose resembling an eggplant cheered Thatcher up considerably, at least enough for him to whistle a jaunty tune while sliding the right key into the worn lock. Finally, with a click, it came free.

He clicked his tongue, turning on the light switch inside the door, stepping aside, chivalrously, so I could step inside.

Thatcher seemed like the messy type, and I had gone out on a limb and assumed that his apartment would have a permanent floor of clothes and pizza boxes. Maybe it was the hair, or the constant flailing limbs, or the fact that I’d been in his car enough to witness the bad cleaning skills first hand. But his miniscule living room was surprisingly spotless, and, probably to his embarrassment, floral.

“Want a beverage? Tea? Coffee? Some probably moldy orange juice?” he called, flicking another switch in the kitchen and disappearing inside. “Sofia scares me, so I’ll venture to say the chocolate milk is off limits.”

“Coffee’s fine,” I called back, sliding off my sweater and throwing it over the armrest of a chair that looked like it belonged in a funeral home.

There was silence for long moment, broken only by rustling and an absurd amount of clanking. “How about tea?”

I rolled my eyes, even though he didn’t possess the ability to look through walls. To my knowledge. “Sounds good.”

More clanking in response, which I took as a sign that he was busy concocting something that I hoped was drinkable. After the bagel incident of this morning, I didn’t put much faith in his cooking skills. If making tea counted as cooking.

Why did I put faith in him for anything, really, I wondered. Wandering over to a stout mirror, I felt the large bump on my head for the nineteenth time. It had definitely swelled in size since I’d hit my head on Thatcher’s dashboard half an hour before. Maybe even doubled.

Ouch.

“Kettle’s boiling,” Thatcher announced, catching me off guard. There wasn’t even a warning beforehe tossed a box of aspirin in my general direction. I watched helplessly as it clocked me in the shoulder. “Oh geez.”