“Advil?”
I looked up at Elliot and took the sunglasses off my face. In the center of his palm were two Advil. I wanted to scream at him, but how could I yell at someone who was offering me drugs? I snatched the red pills out of his hand and swallowed them using the last bit of my strawberry smoothie.
“Thanks.”
“Figured you’d need it.” He shrugged. “Anyways, I was thinking about last night and—”
“Nice try, but I don’t actually want to date you. I was just drunk.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I was going to ask.” He sat in the chair across from me. “I just wanted to know if you were okay.”
“I—uh…why?”
“Clarke, you drunk-dialed me.”
“Eh.” I shrugged. “That’s just a normal Friday.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You asked me to date you.”
“Fake-date,” I corrected.
“Just admit it. You like me.”
“In your dreams.”
“You call me Abercrombie.”
“Pfft. What makes you think I like models? I like ‘em short and bald.”
Elliot let out a hearty laugh. “Okay, Clarke. Whatever you say.”
“You call me Princess,” I accused.
“Because youactlike a Princess.”
“Well.” I clicked my tongue. “Maybe I should call you Princess, too.”
“Name one time you’ve seen me wear a dress.”
“That’s sexist.”
“Fine. I expect you to go to the dance wearing a suit and tie.”
“I hate you.”
His laugh reverberated deep within his throat.
“Are you going to keep flirting with me, or are we going to analyze this stupid poem about dying?”
Do not go gentle into that good nightby Dylan Thomas. It’s a classically overanalyzed poem, but for a good reason.
“Actually, it’s about resisting death.”
“Don’t care.”
“Which is exactly the problem.” I pursed my lips. “I’m not going to spoon-feed you all the answers. You have to at least try.”
“I’m pretty sure analyzing this poem isn’t going to help me get a job in the real world.”
