Free Our Last Time: A Novel by Cristy Marie Poplin Page B

me, and I’d never fall in love with you,” he smirked. “You’d have to be very hot, and persuasive to be a candidate. You don’t seem to want me to fall in love with you, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
    I smiled, because I noticed that he technically called me a hottie. It was probably the closest thing I’d get to a compliment from Wyatt, so I hadn’t asked to make sure that’s what he meant.
    “I’m pretty sure love runs out before you can catch up with it. It did for me, anyway,” I muttered. “I’m not going to be chasing after something that isn’t there, so that shouldn’t be a problem, either.”
    He swallowed hard, and his eyes drifted away from mine. I had been thankful he was the first to look away. He confirmed the nonexistence of whatever deep and engraved thoughts I had starting in my head. I was starting to hate him less, already - just from this little step.
    “We should give a compliment to the other if we’re about to say something mean, or out of line. And if we say something mean or out of line, we have to give two compliments. It’s handbook on the road to being nice,” he half-shrugged. “I’ve never done this before, so consider yourself lucky.”
    “You’re strange,” I grumbled.
    “That’s not a very nice thing to say, Willow,” he tilted his chin at me, and his eyes were on mine again. I gulped. I was thinking this might not be easy. I was already used to insulting him.
    “Your hair looks nice,” I mumbled. “All swirled, and twinkie-looking.”
    “Oh, yeah? What else?” His mouth was curved at one side, and I wanted to growl at him so he’d stop doing that with his mouth.
    “You smell like shit today. You should smell like shit every day, because it’d fit you.” My voice was pitched a little bit too high, and he definitely hadn’t smelt like shit.
    He sighed. “You should have the word bitch tattooed on your forehead, because it’d fit you,” he squinted, and his mouth was still curved on one side. It was like he was mocking me with just the use of his mouth, and I hated that.
    “Your feet are nice. All bare, and caveman-styled,” I said, briefly skimming over the feet I saw everyday that peeked out from the end of the blanket draped over him.
    He looked down at my feet, as if he was insulting them with just the use of his eyes, and I hated that, too.
    “New Balance really brings out your…ankles. You have nice ankles, Willow.”
    I caught a breeze over my ankles as the air began to circulate, and I cursed under my breath. I was wearing high-waters. The shred of hatred that temporarily disappeared was back.
    My teeth were clenched under a falsely presented smile. “Yeah, and your thighs are pretty nice, too. Like two thanksgiving hams mating.”
    “You’re jealous of my juicy thighs, aren’t you?” he smiled, showing off his teeth, and I nearly vacated my entire body from air.
    I coughed, the inside of my elbow pressed to my lips. “I prefer clean-cut,” I replied, my voice muffled.
    There was a long pause, and awkwardly, we just stared at each other for a while.
    My lips were parted, and his were parted, too.
    Chuckles caught in both of our throats, but then we laughed for a short moment in unison - like we both realized at the same time that we could never genuinely compliment one another.
    “This could be simple,” he sighed. “Or you could just get me my breakfast and my two cartons of orange juice, like you do every morning around this time of day. What do you think?”
    “I think I should get you that stick you asked for a few days ago, and shove it up your-”
    “Ass? You were going to say ass, weren’t you?” he shook his head, amused.
    I had let out an obnoxious laugh. “No, your cast , remember? You wouldn’t want two sticks up your ass, now would you?”
    A deep laugh vibrated through his chest, but his mouth remained closed until he said something in response. “Touché, Willow. Touché .”
    5:02p.m.
    “You look like