Free Icy Pretty Love by L.A Rose Page A

you doing?”
    “It’s called negative enforcement.”
    “Negative reinforcement,” he corrects.
    “That is such a stupid distinction—anyway. When you do something mean, I’m going to pinch your cheek. That means you’ll start associating being mean with getting your cheek pinched, and soon you’ll be nice to everyone!”
    “Why would you feel the need to explain negative reinforcement to me if I was the one who told you what the real name for it was? Obviously I know what it is.”
    I thump his chest. “Just putting fear into your heart.”
    He steps back. He’s obviously not used to being touched. It rubs him the wrong way. “You’re insane.”
    “I prefer the term certifiable,” I say. “So when someone calls me certifiable, I can say ‘certifiably awesome!’”
    He shakes his head. Apparently, whatever response that warranted was beyond words.
    “I have a homework assignment for you tonight.” I tap the side of my head. “It’s one of my brilliant ideas. I want you to start keeping a meanness diary. If you write down the mean thoughts you have about people, maybe then you’ll be less inclined to say them out loud.”
    “Will that be graded too?” he asks sarcastically.
    “No, I won’t read it. It’ll just be for you. And when you’re done with each entry, I want you to read it over and contemplate what a douchebag you sound like, and how much better it would be if your entries were filled with compliments for other people’s hairstyles and stuff.”
    He massages his temples. I swat his hands away.
    “Stop it. Now let’s go get tickets.”
    Fun fact about the Eiffel Tower: anybody who has ever visited Paris in the history of ever, except before the Eiffel Tower was built, has visited the Eiffel Tower. That means, at any given time, there are approximately a bazillion people at the Eiffel Tower. Statistics courtesy of Harvard University. And at least two hundred percent of those people are screaming children, yakking tourists, or people acting like idiots. Bringing Cohen here was such a great idea that I almost have to wipe a tear from my eye at my own brilliance.
    After standing in line for ten minutes behind a man loudly explaining the rules of football to his son, whose response to the rules of football is to release an unrelenting bird-of-prey screech, Cohen is visibly twitching.
    “You’re doing well.” I pat his shoulder.
    Ten minutes later, the little kid decides to start a game of hide-and-seek with his sister, choosing the best hiding place—behind Cohen’s legs.
    “It’s illegal to kick small children,” I remind him.
    One of the kids actually wraps his arms around Cohen’s leg, like he’s a tree trunk. System shutdown.
    “I’m leaving,” he growls, shaking off the child and storming out of line.
    “Oh no you’re not!” I yell. “Take one more step, and I’ll have to come after you, and you know I’m capable of guilt-tripping you to stay. Except then we’ll be out of line and we’ll have to get all the way in the back. And we’ll be behind a tourist with three hot dogs in each hand. Make your own choices.”
    Cohen rejoins me, but judging by the expression on his face, sticking his toes into a paper shredder would have been a preferable course of action.
    We are in line for a full hour and a half. In that time, Cohen only makes two mean comments—once to yell at a man who clips him with his elbow, and once to not-so-politely inform a teenage boy collecting signatures that he would never endorse the establishment that employed the kind of person who would hassle people innocently waiting in line. Both times, I pinch his cheek. By the time we reach the entrance to the tower, there’s a red spot on his cheek and a haunted look in his eyes.
    “Oh no.” I stop him as he moves to get onto the ramp that leads to the lift. “We’re taking the stairs.”
    That eyebrow goes up again. “Do you know how high this tower is?”
    “I need some cardio,” I lie. The