Page 3 of Last Letters to Ara
I still don’t answer him, though. This time it’s because I realize I probablyammentally unsound. I mean, I was smiling to myself about my dead dad catching me during hot sex. The fact that one would have to actually behavingsex to get caught is neither here nor there.
“Are you waiting for someone to get off their plane?” He doesn’t give up easily, this one.
“No.”
“Then why are you sitting in the airport?”
“Are YOU waiting for someone to get off their plane?” Maybe he’s also in the airport thinking about a dead parent catching him doing the deed.
Not likely. That territory of unhinged thoughts is strictly population: me.
He chuckles. “Actually, I’m not,” as if that’s explanation enough.
Tinder Boy’s expression is hard to read. His eyes seem genuine, tinged with something close to surprise, maybe even a little curious. When paired with his slightly raised brows and uneven smile, he looks...dazed. A little taken aback, even.
“Okay.” End of conversation.
“So then what are you doing waiting on this side of security, if you’re not waiting for someone?”
“Minding my own business.” I look pointedly in his direction.
His answering smirk does things to me.Weirdthings.
I decide Ireallydon’t like him.
“Are you from around here?”
“No, I just did a cross-country road trip to a random airport, because why not?” My voice drips with sarcasm.
He laughs again.
“I’m Theo,” he says as he holds out his hand. I can’t even remember the last time someone my age offered a handshake. It’s like an archaic method of interaction to my generation and it has me thinking. What if he’s one of those guys who doesn’t wash their hands?
“Don’t worry, I wash my hands regularly.” He jokes, leaving his hand extended a moment longer.
Idefinitelydon’t like that he managed to string my thoughts together.
Theo finally drops his hand, still grinning and not looking the least bit put-off by my refusal to shake his hand. It makes me uneasy. What could this guy want so bad not to be discouraged already?
“What’s your name?”
Aaaand that’s my last straw.
“I’m leaving,” I say as I abruptly stand up.
“Why are you leaving? We just started talking.”
“You were the one doing the talking.”
“Come on, at least tell me your name before you go.” That dimple makes another appearance, and it quickly becomes what I hate most about him, along with his eyes and his hair and his jaw and his...everything.
“My name is Gertrude Agnes Cocksuck,” I say with a straight face.
Theo lets out a terrified snort, but sobers himself quickly. “You’re joking.”
“Guess you’ll never know,” I say with a shrug and make my way toward the elevator.
As if my parents would bethatcruel. They were only cruel enough to name me “Sarah” along with every other American household welcoming a daughter in the late nineties. Paired with the last name “Scott” they may as well have named me Jane Doe. Actually, that would have been more original.
