Audrey.
I sit back and read it over. Okay, it's a bit too wordy and I'm not sure if I've used the word "distillate" correctly, but I've just put it in there to throw him off, to let him know who he's dealing with. I also hope that by taking charge like this and setting the initiative, I'm creating a very professional—and very valuable—paper trail. AKA, when this project goes to hell, at least I have the proof to give to Marie that shows I tried.
Something tells me from now on nothing is going to be as easy as it seems.
I press send.
I wait.
And wait.
Open up a bag of pistachios and eat a few of them.
Nothing yet from Harry.
But a new text from Ashton comes in:
You'll be fine, you know how to put him in his place.
I can't help but smile at the phone.
Harry
I've learned a lot in my twenty-three years.
How to eat pussy like a champ.
How to lie through my teeth.
How to cook a brilliant spaghetti Bolognese.
And I've learned how to tell when people love me, like me, and when they genuinely hate me. You'd think this would be a pretty obvious and a basic skill to have, but you'd be surprised at how much of human fallacy comes from the inability to read each other. In other words, we're always reading in people what we want to see. Some of us want everyone to love us, some of us think that everyone hates us (and thus this gives us a valid reason to hate them).
Me, I have no delusions about who I am and what I am to people. I know I can be pretty callous as of late when it comes to women, and I know I deserve their wrath (although the whole replacing my conditioner with Nair trick that the crazy twat from the pub did went a little too far, even for me).
I know I can be worthwhile to people too, though maybe not always the right people and in the right way. All you need to do to know how people really feel about you is to turn off your ears and read their body language. It goes beyond the expression on their face, even though the eyes will rarely lie, and it starts to become something almost metaphysical. It's all vibe. It's instinct.
In other words, if a girl says she loves you and she's not looking you in the eye, it means she doesn't. Or she has intimacy issues. Or she's cheating on you. Either way, it means she's not flying halfway across the world to live with you anymore, that long-distance relationships aren't worth it, and you have a sad little problem on your hands.
So it's pretty easy to tell that my classmate in Writing 200, and my current writing partner, Audrey Parker, hates my bloody guts.
And, for once, I have no fucking idea why.
Well, that's not entirely true. I have some idea why. Because I don't particularly like her either. It's become something of a chicken or the egg situation. Her obvious dislike of me has led to my dislike of her, and my dislike of her has led to me, well, trying to get a rise out of her whenever I can.
It's a great way to pass the time in an otherwise boring class, even if I do feel like I've resorted to being an obnoxious teenager at times. But poking fun at how uptight she is and how she takes class—and I'm guessing everything in life—way too seriously is completely different than having to work with her. It's not that I have a lot of vested interested in this class or my final grade, but I do want to pass—no I need to pass—and get my bloody degree over with. Something that once seemed easy looks to be a whole lot harder.
As soon as class was over, I saw her make a beeline for our teacher. I knew she was trying to get out of it, but I'm pretty sure the professor has it in for me. More than that, she's stubborn and won't budge. So I let this be Audrey's battle while I resigned to having her as a thorn in my side for the rest of the semester.
In fact, knowing how seriously Audrey takes the class, and herself, I know she's going to be a total control freak over the project. That's fine. More control for her, less work for me. I guess the only good thing is that whatever we end up writing, I don't think it will be romance. What I've noticed from Audrey's writing in class is that she veers toward darkness, raw reality, and a lot of fantasy that's just one step away from playing World of Warcraft in her parents' basement and attending Comic Cons so that she can stalk her favorite wizard from a long ago cancelled TV show.
Of course I'm just guessing. I don't know much about her, but I'm also in no hurry to find out. The only appealing aspect of this girl is her hair and her arse. Her hair is the color of cayenne pepper and cinnamon, and her arse, well I wouldn't mind coloring it that way with my palm. It might take a few smacks, but they would be worth it. She'll pretend to be too virginal and stuck up to try it but I'll wear her down with the promise of my big dick. Not that I've ever fantasized about this scenario.
I'm about to text my friend Niall and ask if he wants to grab a drink at Spinnakers, my favorite pub (and thankfully not the same pub the Nair-wielding wench works at), when I get a call from my father asking me if I can pick up my sis Gemma from school and drop her off at the shop.
