MichaelB22: First of all, is twangy even a word? Second, you clearly haven’t been exposed to the right kind of country. In my opinion, there’s nothing more romantic.
I’m a sap. I know. I blame it on my mom. She made us watch romantic movies so we would learn how to be gentlemen. Occasionally I still watch them with her and my sister, just to brush up on my knowledge, of course.
I spot Sean just as he sticks his tonguedownsome poor girl’s throat. Apparently, he didn’t learn as much as I did.
NotthatJuliet: So, you’re a romantic?
I think about how to answer that. I wouldn’t classify myself along with the fictional and extremely cheesy characters in the romances I’ve seen. I’ve often forgotten important dates and details about girlfriends. Yet I can recall almost every dimension for an entire room of cabinets. According to my sister, who has absolutely no qualifications, it’s because I didn’t care enough about those girls in the first place.
I step away from the wall and right into someone’s path. I try to dodge out of the way, but my left foot is too slow. It catches the girl with her head down, tapping on her phone. Her body surges forward, and I snatch her arm and swing her around, using the gravity hauling her down to my advantage. We come to a stop; her head a foot from the ground, and my arm securely around her back like we just finished a ballroom dance routine.
Her eyes are wide and shocked, like she can’t believe how sheended up in this position.
Cell phones are dangerous things. I’m about to make a joke about it when she opens her mouth.
“You can pick me up now.” She scowls.
“You can thank me now,” I retort.
“Thank you? For tripping me?”
I guess I did do that as well. I stand straight, tugging her with me. I barely have her upright before she pushes away.
Do I stink that bad from basketball?
“Clearly, it was an accident,” I say. “And I saved you.”
She rolls her eyes and flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. “How gallant of you.”
Then she turns and stalks off.
I shake my head and return to my message thread with Juliet. Me, a romantic? Please.
MichaelB22: I’m practically a knight in shining armor.
Chapter 7
Michael
Sunday nights are reserved for family dinner at my parents’ house. As if I don’t spend enough time with my brothers throughout the week. But I’d come home every night for mom’s cooking.
I suspect that’s not the reason Grant keeps showing up, but regardless, he’s been here every Sunday for years.
“Hey, man.” He sitsby me at the table as the rest of the family falls into their places. Dad and Mom on opposite ends, with Grandma and the rest of us in between. I think everyone hassat in the same seats forever out of habit. It’s bound to change someday, but right now I like that everything remains the same. About family.
“Hey,” I say, dishing up some food.
Grant grabs a roll. “How’s online dating going?”
“Good.” Last night I stayed up until two messaging Juliet. I learned she despises the playRomeo and Juliet, which means I should in no way refer to her asthatJuliet. She loves chocolate chip cookies and true crime shows even though they give her nightmares. (The true crime, not the cookies.)
After that, we talked about our days, our frustrations with school and work, roommates, and family. I didn’t think it was possible, but I might have a good chance of winning this bet after all. I’ll know for sure when she agrees to go out with me, but I have to admit, she seems like the perfect girl for me.
“Falling in love yet?” Grant smirks, taking a drink of juice.
“Whose falling in love?” Mom pipes up from the other end of the table. That woman. She never claims to be eavesdropping until she hears keywords like love, pregnancy, or prison. Then all the sudden it’s “Who’s pregnant?”
“Grant,” I say easily. My sister Lennox’s head pops up at this revelation and I chuckle behind my water glass.
