99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

7 | Last Kiss

The next update is finally here, after some serious writer's block, schoolwork, and a lot of hyperventalating. Since's it been so long since you've had the pleasure of Bronwyn, Thatcher, and Adonis's company, I'll give you a small recap - Thatcher whacked Bronwyn in the face, and Bronwyn told him all about her dinner date with Adonis that ended up with Rhoda showing up. And she agreed to be his date to his sister's wedding.

Now for some other important notes - I had to take this out of the Wattys, because I won't be able to finish in time. Pax's name has been changed to Max, to avoid confusion. And this chapter has been dedicated to prettywords, who helped me with some important decisions when I needed her to. Sadly, Wattpad says she no longer exists, and I can't really dedicate it to her. :(

Last Kiss

If you spend enough time with someone, eventually you learn all the weird things that glue the normal things about them together.  Maybe you only see the glue because they feel that they can finally be themselves, break free, or because they’re so sick of holding back that one bad habit around you. Or maybe you’re like Thatcher – so open about your patchwork personality that you’ll tell anyone anything.

So far, I’d learned entirely too much about Gina, that he was allergic to every kind of seafood, that he could recite all of “Hamlet’s Soliloquy,” and that he was far too good at “Six Degrees of Seperation.” And I was only beginning to scratch the surface.

“C’mon, Bronwyn. You know you want to see if it’s true,” Thatcher half whined, half teased, stirring yet another packet of Splenda into his coffee.

I shook my head, adamant. When I’d agreed to an “I’m-so-sorry-I-almost-broke-your-nose” coffee date, I didn’t know I was signing up for extreme amounts of badgering. For some reason, I had just assumed that we might actually try and have a normal conversation.

As if that would ever happen.

“Please? I haven’t played in ages – everyone already knows that I’ll just crush their spirit, leaving them unable to look at me without feeling the urge to break my face.”

I snorted into my coffee. “That’s a totally convincing argument. Because it’s every girl’s dream to have her soul crushed during ‘Six Degrees of Seperation.’”

Thatcher looked up, suddenly optimistic. “Really?”

“No.”

“You know you want to. Deep down, the curiosity is eating you.”

Tentatively, I took another sip of my drink, almost getting the roof of my mouth burned off in the process. I set it down on the table, pushed aside my handbag, and confronted Thatcher’s optimistic grin.

“Will there be a prize?”

Thatcher raised one eyebrow, chuckling. “Must there always be a prize?”

That was too easy. “Always.”

He stroked his chin in the classic thinking position, watching me out of one eye. “Fine. I win, you tell me another reason. You win, and I buy you another coffee.”