Free Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey by Cathy Cassidy Page A

type
     back.
Don’t you ever sleep? You
     party so hard it’s a miracle you ever make it into uni. What did you say
     you were studying again?
    xxx
    An answer bounces back almost at
     once.
Wouldn’t you like to know? I
     take classes in surfing, drinking and sleeping till midday, but messaging
     beautiful girls in the middle of the night is my speciality.
    I’m still grinning at that when the
     next message comes through.
So … how is my favourite
     insomniac today?
    I tap out a reply.
I’m good, how about you? Did
     you just get in?
    xxx
    I click Send, and a minute later
     Riley’s answer appears.
What can I say? Maybe I’ve
     started to set my alarm to 5 a.m. to chat online to my favourite English girl.
     Or maybe I’m a no-good party animal, destined to haunt the after-dark,
     cider-stained backyards of the Sydney suburbs, searching for true love night
     after night and finding nothing but heartache.
    My fingers fly over the keyboard.
I think I can guess which.
     So … good party? Meet anyone cool?
    xxx
    A reply appears.
Several dozen meat-headed bozo surf
     kids, a handful of clueless students, three girls who looked like extras from a
     Frankenstein movie and one scrounging mongrel who ran off with my burger.
     I’m not lucky in love.
    That makes me laugh out loud. I type
     back.
I know the feeling. I have a knack
     of picking the worst boys ever. At least, I did … I have turned over a
     new leaf.
    xxx
    Riley’s reply appears.
Snap. Only with girls, obviously.
     Hey, let’s liven this up. Truth or dare?
    I shake my head. There’s no way I
     am going to pick dare – I can just imagine Riley daring me to skinny dip in
     Dad’s pool or cycle along the street in my PJs singing Christmas carols. Not
     happening. I type a reply.
Truth. Maybe!
    A minute later, my challenge arrives.
So, tell me about the boys
     you’ve dated in the past. The good, the bad, the ugly …
    I bite my lip. This is not my idea of
     fun, but Riley is not to know that.
Do I have to? Like I said,
     I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m off boys.
    A reply appears almost at once.
Even me?
    I type back.
You’re different.
     You’re one of the good guys, right?
    Even as I type, I’m not sure if
     that’s what Riley is. When I met him on the beach, he seemed like a surfer-boy
     version of Shay Fletcher, wholesome and sporty and cool. His messages are different,
     though, giving an impression of a hard-partying bad-boy.
    He answers quickly.
You wouldn’t be interested if
     I was one of the good guys, admit it. Either way, here is my past history, so
     you know you’re not alone. The good: a girl from my old high school who
     had my heart for years, but didn’t even notice I was alive. The bad: too
     many to name. The ugly: see above. And then there’s you. Hoping you might
     fit into the ‘good’ category … a guy can dream! OK, your
     turn now!
    I blink. No wonder I can’t
     pigeon-hole Riley; he is a mixture of good and bad, exactly like me. Maybe we both
     just need the right person to break the old patterns and be the best we can be? I
     start to type; I’m not sure my message is the whole truth, but there’s
     enough there to let Riley know I’ve had a messed-up past. He likes trouble
     too, I am pretty sure of that.
The good: a boy I dated back when I
     was thirteen or fourteen. He ditched me for my stepsister, so I’m guessing
     he didn’t feel the same way. The bad: hmmm, it’s a long list. Teen
     biker, Year 11 heart-throb, farmer’s son, film student, tattooed
     fairground boy … just a few of the edited highlights. The ugly: I
     don’t do ugly, unless you count the lovesick nobody who got me chucked out
     of school a while back, and … I don’t. So
     yeah … there’s a vacancy in the ‘good’ category
     right now if you want to apply? Just sayin’.
    xxx
    I wait for a response, but the minutes
     slide by and the fizz inside me goes flat, like Coke left out in the sun. I was
     trying to pick