99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

5 | The Fifth Reason

I haven't updated in a while, and for that I am truely sorry. Writer's block, yah know? Not the best thing in the world. But I've finally hit my stride on this chapter, and here it is! Remember to read, comment, and vote if you please, my beloved readers! It makes me so happy to read what you've been writing!

The Fifth Reason

I didn’t know if being with Thatcher even counted towards the long list of potential suitors I had drawn up mentally. It was like we were moving in reverse, always. We learned the hard stuff about each other first, making most of the idle conversations that drifted between my involved stories about as significant as flecks of dust on Thatcher’s dashboard.

“I have a question for the peanut gallery; do you always buy so many wheat products?” Thatcher asked, eyeing the box of crackers he had carelessly tossed in his backseat in the rearview mirror.

“Why? Do you have some problem with my wheat consumption?”

“No, no. Only if you start force feeding me your sliced bread.” Now that he had dragged his eyes away from the rearview, he was now twiddling his thumbs on the steering wheel. Clicking his teeth. Tapping his leg on the break pedal. I had to admit, one of the only reasons I kept him talking was to prevent the constant noises he would make otherwise.

“You can’t eat gluten,” I clarified.

“Celiac disease. My body can’t digest it properly or some hokum like that.”

“So if I force fed you gluten right now you would?”

“Probably get incredibly nauseous and woozy, faint, and hurl us into oncoming traffic.”

I contemplated this for a minute, and Thatcher took this as an excuse to reach for the volume dial, drowning out whatever else I had to say on the matter. He probably knew I’d point out that I would be perfectly content throwing his car in the path of a steel truck, just as long as I got my produce back.

“Is it my turn to ask a question now?”

“Fire away.”

I sucked in my breath for a minute, swirling the question along my tongue. I wasn’t used to the sensation – in case you haven’t gathered yet, I’m not a touchy-feely, ‘let’s-talk-about-our-feelings’ kind of girl. If people were like those ancient Roman burial sites they feature on the History channel, I only got around to sifting through the dirt a little bit, while most people expected you to tunnel through the sun baked surface.

“Why are you so, so interested in me?”

Thatcher tore his gaze from the road to give me an incredulous stare. “Why not?”

“There’s plenty of reasons,” I started adamantly. He didn’t buy it. “I’m just some messed up girl with a messed up life that you really didn’t need to get involved in. You could get any girl you wanted with your scruffy puppy dog looks and your sweet sense of humor, but instead you choose to dedicate your time to the one girl who won’t let you in. I’m not interesting, just completely antisocial.”