Kissing in Cars (Kiss and Make Up #1)(58)

"Wes, are you and Molly having sex?"

"What?! No. Why would you ask that? When she was here did she look like the type of girl that would just spread 'em for anyone? Jeez."

"Son, I hate to break it to you, but no girl looks like the type when they're half soaking wet. Unless of course they're wearing a swim suit."

"We are not having sex."

"Well then, maybe that's your damn problem," my dad grins while he rubs the stubble on his chin. He pushes himself off the fridge and checks his watch. "Look, date Molly or don't date her - but once you start getting off track..." he runs his hand across his throat in a 'you're cut off' motion. "And for God's sake don't let anyone else influence you - unless it's your Mom or I." He laughs at his own joke. "Oh, and Weston? Stop being such a little prick around here. You're driving us nuts." He grabs his keys off the counter and walks into the living room to bellow up the stairs. "Kendall, let's get rolling. You have soccer in twenty."

And that folks, is about as warm and fuzzy as it gets with Brian McGrath. He and Kendall leave, and I'm still standing in the kitchen in the same spot where he left me. I run a hand over my face, just as my stomach growls.

Resigned, I sigh loudly and dig my cell out of the back pocket of my cargo shorts, and text the only person I can think of that will be around.





Chapter Twenty-Nine





MOLLY


"What you put up with, you end up with." - Mrs. Wakefield



I am starving.

And pathetically, I am at the one place where I shouldn't be. Not only that, I'm alone. Completely and utterly alone. I couldn't even convince Jenna to take pity on me enough to come along. That traitor.

She tossed me over for Alex, who has a band concert tonight.

Yeah, that's right, you heard me correctly.

A band concert.

What's even worse: Alex doesn't even play a manly instrument. Nope. He plays the clarinet - and hey, no offense to any of you clarinet players, but come on. He's a guy. But now that I think about it, the guy does wear skinny jeans...

Anyways, whatever - Jenna hates noodles, in any case.

I pull the romance book out of my bag (it's been weeks since I've had time to read anything), slapping it on the table, followed by my iPod and cell phone. Tucked away in a corner booth, I don't know how I ended up at Kyoto, but my Jeep - on its own accord, mind you-seemed to be on auto pilot because before I even knew what was happening, I was driving myself here. Call me crazy. Call me a glutton for punishment. I just couldn't seem to help myself.

So here I sit, admittedly a little glum. Cracking open my book (which shall remain nameless: the title is simply too embarrassing to reveal) I lean back and settle in, forking my plate idly to let the steam out of my heaping pile of veggies and noodles. The steam rises to drift up to the hanging lamp above, and I can't resist musing that if Weston were here, he wouldn't hesitate to shove a forkful into his impatient mouth.

I smile ruefully as my phone pings and the new text, not surprisingly, is from Jenna.

Her: help. seriously. i want to poke my eyes out.

Me: awww, what a good gf u are

Jenna: this isn't funny. omg did u know rachel davenport plays the tuba? shoot me now.

No, actually I didn't know Rachel Davenport played the tuba. Yeah, it is a rather odd choice for someone so short, but what did I care?

Me: u really should be paying more attention. tsk tsk

Jenna: i hate u.

Chuckling, I get back to my book and give my noodles a little poke every now and again, my stomach growling in protest. It wants to eat. Huffing a sigh at myself for my own impatience, I lean forward and pick up my fork. As I'm slowly twirling the long whole wheat noodles around the tines, I glance up briefly towards the door and swear my eyes are playing a horrible, hideous trick on me. And, since God has never answered my previous prayers about opening up the earth and letting it swallow me whole, I don't even bother chanting the request in my head.

I look up at the door again, and rub my eyes with my free hand.

Nope. This is not a dream.

It's a nightmare.

Weston and his buddies are most definitely standing in the entry of the restaurants dining room, scanning for a free table. At the front of the group, Derek Hanson elbows that guy Adam Something-or-other, and they both stare in my direction. I slink lower in my seat, grasping and fumbling for my ear buds and shove them into my ears, hitting the power button on my iPod in a futile attempt to drown out any conversation of theirs I might pick up on.

Then, in an act of even further desperation, I hold my book in front of my face, sleazy romantic cover be damned. Beggars can't be choosers, after all, and I can't very well hold my napkin in front of my face.

And oh my God, I can't imagine how stupid I look. I can't even think about it without getting ill.

Shit, shit, double SHIT.





WESTON


Obviously I can see Molly in the corner of the restaurant, and from the looks of it, is one camper who is not happy to see me. I study her for a few brief seconds while my friends make snide comments beside me, and she kind of actually reminds me of this one time I took Kendall to the zoo, and they let us hold a baby chinchilla. First the tiny little critter avoided all eye contact from the corner of its cage, than once I picked it up, it pretended to be dead.