Page 18 of A Favor Owed

Still stalling, I read my mom’s latest email, in which she recounts her current redecorating endeavor. I reply with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

Finally, I open Brady’s text, read it again, and type out a reply.

The guy who wrote my number on the wall doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.

His reply comes back almost immediately.He did mention you have a nice ass.

I laugh, outraged, embarrassed, and oddly flattered all at the same time.Thanks, I guess. Yours isn’t bad, either.

That’s what all the girls say.

So modest, Brady.

Brady? Who’s Brady? This is Professor Baker.

I burst out laughing, falling back onto the cushions of the battered brown plaid couch that had come with the apartment.That is disgusting!!!

You’re laughing, though, aren’t you?

I’m nauseous.

From laughing so hard.

OK, yeah, I’m practically falling off my sofa I’m laughing so hard. Happy?

Yeah, he texts back.You’re beautiful even when you’re all pissy and uptight. When you smile you take it to a whole other level.

Pissy and uptight… Wow. You really know how to make a girl swoon.

Did you miss the beautiful part?

That’s what all the boys say.

Touché, Pines.

I smile as I type my reply.Pines? Who’s Pines? This is Professor Camacho and I’m filing a sexual harassment complaint against you, Mr. McDaniels.

Nice. Now I’m the one falling off my sofa.

He texts again.Beautiful and funny. Deadly combo.

Don’t forget not a Red Sox fan, I text back.

That’s it. You’ve hit my 3 criteria. Will you marry me?

I laugh.Time and place, McDaniels.

See you in class tomorrow, princess.

I put my phone down and stretch out on my sofa, one arm flung off the side and the other covering my eyes.

A guy is flirting with me. A hot, funny, cool, sweet guy is flirting with me. Not just flirting with me. Actively pursuing me, it seems. Texting me for no particular reason, taking me out for coffee, and asking me out for Saturday.

This is new to me. In high school and even in college, my family’s name and reputation kept the boys at a distance. No one wanted to be in the unenviable position of breaking my heart or taking my V-card. Either one, legend had it, would result in the corpse of a beloved pet ending up in their bed—unless they caught my dad on a really bad day, in which case their own corpse would end up at the bottom of the East River. The denouement of that bit of folklore is that I’m still a virgin.

The really funny part about it? My dad didn’t give half a shit what I did in my social life. I could have gang-banged the football team on his pool table for all he cared. All that crap about men like him protecting their daughters’ virtue is just that: crap. So long as I stayed out of his way and didn’t seek much attention from him, we were cool.

Well, those days are over. I’m not my father’s daughter anymore. I’m my own person, and a boy likes me. A man, really, even though he has those freckles and that unruly hair, and even though he grins like a kid about to steal your last gummy bear. He’s a man who looks at me like I’m a woman, not a shortcut to a dead end.

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