Page 11 of One Week Hating You
Part II
Hometown
4
CORRIE POPS ANOTHER PRINGLE into her mouth – pizza flavored. She’s wearing a classic white suit and stylish red Mary-Jane heels with a T-strap. She looks fabulous as always. She will definitely not fit in in Westbrooke, where the idea of high fashion is Birkenstocks, dark blue Levis jeans and a clean white tee.
And neither will I. I’m wearing a flowy polka-dot skirt and pink tank top, with matching flower covered pumps – not too high, only two and a half inches or so.
“We’re going to stick out like sore thumbs,” I tell her. “Did you bring some t-shirts and jean shorts?”
She reaches for her iced tea bottle in the center console. “Oh yeah,” she says. “I just like to make a grand entrance… you only get to make a first impression once.”
I stare up ahead at the road – blue skies, green hills and mountains. It’s beautiful, I’ll give it that. “True.”
“Almost there?” she asks.
“Yep.”
She digs into the tin for another potato chip. “So what’s your favorite Pringles flavor?”
I mull it over for just a second. “Original.”
“Booooor-ing,” she quips. “I like Pizza.”
I’m brought back to Peter’s words, and a sharp stab hits me in the stomach. “Yep, that’s me… boring.”
“Well… I didn’t mean,” she falters. “You’re just very… simple. You’re a simple girl. That’s not a bad thing.”
Iamboring. I always eat original Pringles. There are about a dozen flavors out there: Pizza, Cheddar Cheese, Sour Cream and Onion, Salt and Vinegar, BBQ, and so many more. I see them at the grocery store but I always reach for the original. No wonder he left me.
“Seriously,” I say. “Am I boring?”
Corrie snickers. “Well, you’re not the most exciting person in the world, but we still love you. You’re sweet.”
“Ugh….” I scoff. “There’s that word again…. ‘sweet’.”
“What’s wrong with sweet?”
“That’s what Peter called me in that stupid email he sent me,” I tell her. “He said I was predictable and sweet. He said he wanted to experience more, wasn’t ready to settle down.”
She stretches her legs out on the dashboard – her pretty shoes shine. “What a pompous jerk.”
“Yep.”
“We should show him,” she says. “That you’re not a sweet little predictable wallflower.”
I think about it for a beat, hands pressed on the two and ten o’clock position on the wheel, just like I was taught in Driver’s Ed. “But I am… he’s right.”
“Well, you could try… you could try something different,” she suggests. “Step out of your comfort zone a little. It would do you good.”
“Well, that’s easy for you to say,” I point out. “You’re a natural risk taker. You’re fun and bold. You’re the woman who walked out on her husband because he didn’t fold his basket of laundry like you asked.”
She laughs, a loud boisterous chuckle. “Impulsive is what I am, and hot tempered… not always a good thing.”
“So,” I go on. “How does one step out of their comfort zones? What should I do?”
“Well, first off…” She digs her slender arm deep into the Pringles tin. “Get rid of that day planner you always carry around, and chuck that fancy watch. Live in the moment.”
