99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

20 | The Twenty-First Reason

I updated. Huzzah. Before you divulge into the latest adventures of Bronwyn and Thatcher, I want to let you know that there's information about updating and a "99 Reasons" related challenge on my wall. Page. The dooblydoo (if you know to what I am referring to you are awesome). Dedicated to AParallelUniverse because stopping The Big Bang Theory for anything is  big deal. Song to the side is "Arms" by Christina Perri, because she's awesome and I just love it and the lyrics are perfect for this.

The Twenty-First Reason

“Okay, okay, we all know this is the real winner.”

I looked up, already cringing, prepared to face the brunt of whatever Thatcher’s extensive tie collection had to offer. I thought it had been bad when he had whipped out a ghastly-looking surfboard-printed thing, but it all went downhill from there. Because, apparently, the real ‘obvious winner’ was –

“Is that a monkey?” I squinted at it, trying to find some method to the madness. “Or a sloth?”

Thatcher remained unimpressed. “A slothkey. Get with the program.”

“A slothkey. Right.”

“Look – I think it says something along the lines of ‘I’m wild, but ready to be tamed.’ But at the same time, I’m afraid Gina will think it’s more of a ‘relentless maze, never to escape’ kind of thing.”

I blinked, slowly, letting the words run through my foggy brain once, then twice. “You got all this,” I said finally, “from a jungle print tie?”

“Not jungle. Remember: ‘wild, ready to be tamed.’”

I’d opened in the door in the hope that it would be the spectacularly late deliveryman, ready to shove whatever bills I had clutched in my left hand at him and send him back on his way. It wasn’t like my house was hard to find – it was smack in the center of the street right off Main. Instead I got Thatcher, who was trying to hide the fact that he was in the middle of a nervous breakdown, and his plethora of ties, all which seemed to have come from some deep level of fashion hell. A deep, deep level.

I cleared my throat. “I think it’s a little much for a first-slash-not-first date.”

A beat. And then, “Huh. You know, you might be onto something with that one.”

“I try.”

Thatcher tossed it over the arm of the chair, flopping down beside me. “Well then, what would you recommend? Surfboards? A bowtie? Flippers? Maybe wetsuits are the future of high fashion.”

I shot a glance at the jungle-themed tie before answering. “The bigger problem,” I said carefully, “is that your pants and your shirt clash. Horribly.”

Thatcher’s eyes went wide, and I visibly cringed. I might as well have stuck his first-slash-not-first date under the guillotine, sentencing it to death before it had even begun. Between Thatcher’s obvious nerves and Gina’s, well, obvious indifference to the fact that she broke his heart, calling him and asking for a second chance, it was obvious to a cultured expert like me that they were headed towards disaster. Full speed ahead.