Free The Ruining by Anna Collomore Page B

by a few times to invite them to dinner, but they seem to prefer to hang out by themselves.”
“Well, Libby did just have a baby,” I heard myself saying defensively. “And they just moved here, so I’m sure they’re still settling in.” That last part was a blatant lie—their house was fully set up and their belongings unpacked like they’d been there for years.
“It’s cool,” Owen said, raising both palms in the air in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t realize you were so close to them. How do you know them, anyway?”
“We met online at the beginning of the summer,” I mumbled. “I answered their ad.”
“So . . . you don’t actually know them,” Owen stated. “You sort of Internet-dated them.”
“I’ve been living there for two weeks now,” I told him. “I think that’s enough time to get a sense of anyone. I guess I trust my instincts. Libby just kind of . . . gets me. I can’t explain it. And besides, you’re hardly one to talk. You’re my age and you’re still living at home.”
“I’m probably older than you. I’m twenty.”
“Case in point.”
“Touché.”
I laughed. Owen was fun to talk to; he didn’t seem to take anything too seriously. My budding crush, which had originally been based on superficial things like looks combined with scenario (being “saved” by a handsome EMT was a meet-cute too good to waste), was full-fledged now that I liked his personality, too.
“Can I have a glass of water?” I asked. “I’m feeling parched from all of this verbal sparring.”
“Yes . . . if you’ll also join me for a milkshake.” I felt myself blush—was he asking me on a date? Then Owen gestured toward the blender, already half-full of ice cream, chocolate syrup, and milk. Not a date. Right here, right now. I ducked my head down, hoping he didn’t notice my face’s rapid transition to a vivid shade of pink.
Owen brought down a glass from the cupboard above the island and filled it with water at the sink. Then he dropped two more enormous scoops of ice cream into the blender and squeezed chocolate syrup on top, sighing melodramatically as it oozed slowly from the bottle.
“You’d think they’d have developed a better way of dispensing it by now,” he remarked.
“I think it’s all about portion control. You’re not supposed to use half the bottle every time.”
“Once you try it, you won’t be complaining.”
He was right. It was awesome. Somehow he’d perfected the ratio of milk and ice cream so the end result was thick, like something from a restaurant, rather than runny, the way homemade milkshakes usually were. It was heavenly.
“Yum,” I told him. “Thanks for making it.”
“It’s my favorite thing to cook,” he said.
“Oh yeah? What else is in your culinary repertoire?”
“Sardine bagels. S’mores. Grilled cheese on the Foreman.”
“An impressive range.”
“I’ve never actually utilized the oven or stove,” he remarked in between slurps. “I find them superfluous.”
“I think your overwhelming talent has probably surpassed them,” I said. He laughed in the way only confident people do, loudly and with his head tossed back.
“So what’s your greatest fear?” he asked, when he finally caught his breath.
“Oh god,” I groaned.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “It’s nothing, really.” I didn’t want to say what was on my mind for fear of offending him.
“You’re a nihilist?”
“Very funny.” I scowled.
“Then what?”
“I just really, really hate these kinds of questions.”
“What kind? The curious kind? The kind that show an interest in who you are?”
“YES! Exactly. The getting-to-know-you ones. The only lamer question is, ‘What kind of music do you listen to?’”
“Actually,” he said offhandedly, “it wasn’t really about getting to know you. Had you allowed me to explain myself before jumping to conclusions, you might have learned that I was asking for different reasons, reasons that directly