So, That Got Weird: A Painfully Awkward Love Story (So Far, So Good Book 1)

by Amelia Kingston

  ManMeat4Sale: Ouch…my little goose has claws

  Lizbit31415: What are you doing on here?

  ManMeat4Sale: Is that a trick question? Attempting to Rule Them All…duh

  Lizbit31415: You’re a dork

  ManMeat4Sale: I know you are, but what am I?

  ManMeat4Sale: I bet you $10 you just rolled your eyes at me

  Lizbit31415: Shut up!

  ManMeat4Sale: I’m not talking. And you owe me $10

  Lizbit31415: No way. I never took the bet!

  ManMeat4Sale: Fine. I’ll make you a deal…

  Lizbit31415: Another deal?

  ManMeat4Sale: Yep. I let you welch on the bet if you give me some game pointers

  Lizbit31415: While I still say I am under no such financial obligation, I’ll help you out. What are friends for, right?

  ManMeat4Sale: So, we have a deal?

  Lizbit31415: Sure, Mav…we have a deal

  A few minutes later, my screen pings with a notification.

  You’ve received a gift of foreign aid from Uforia in the amount of—ten dollars.

  Guess Elizabeth can admit when I’m right after all.

  I’m amazingly content spending my Friday night nerding it up with Elizabeth. The game is as complicated as I want to make it. I can set a lot of crap to be automatic, or I can micromanage the shit out of it. Elizabeth is clearly a micromanager.

  She’s right, the game is boring as fuck. It’s more like econ homework than a video game. But how excited she gets about it is cute as shit. I swear, she gets turned on talking about her trade policy. Between her enthusiasm and having SportsCenter on in the background, the night goes by pretty quickly.

  ManMeat4Sale: I’ve gotta hit the sack, early game

  Lizbit31415: ok

  ManMeat4Sale: What’s the dress code for Sunday?

  Lizbit31415: Collared shirt and suit, tie optional

  ManMeat4Sale: Ties are never optional. They’re either required or they will not be worn

  Lizbit31415: I’ll try to remember that

  ManMeat4Sale: Pick you up around 5:30?

  Lizbit31415: Perfect. Good luck tomorrow!

  ManMeat4Sale: Thanks. Sweet dreams, Goose

  Lizbit31415: Night, Mav

  * * * *

  Staring at Elizabeth’s closed apartment door on Sunday evening, shifting my weight back and forth nervously from foot to foot, I can’t decide if I should knock or just walk in. We’ve both gotten used to me waltzing in. But tonight I’m dressed up and taking her out. This doesn’t have the comfortable feel of our normal nights together. It’s more of a date. Jesus, I sound like a pussy.

  Just knock on the damn door, Jacobs!

  Elizabeth answers quickly. She must’ve been waiting on me. I run my gaze over her, taking in the sight. She’s the epitome of understated class in a muted gray dress, conservatively ending at the tops of her knees. The cardigan she’s wearing probably has more to do with downplaying her amazing tits than keeping her warm. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, making me think for the first time that she might actually own a hairbrush.

  All prim and proper, she isn’t the shy girl I met in the library anymore. She is a woman. Someday she’ll be someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. I shake away images of the future I’ll never be a part of and focus on what I can have. I picture all the naughty things I get to do to her instead.

  I snake my hand around her back and pull her close so I can whisper in her ear, “You’re pretty enticing.” I kiss the delicate spot on her neck, below her ear, that makes her tremble.

  “Enticing?”

  “The whole innocent modesty thing makes me want to get you a little filthy.” I move my hand down to her ass and give a little squeeze. Her breath is ragged and all I want to do is shove her back into the apartment and help her lose control.

  “You look nice,” Elizabeth compliments me in a shaky voice. She’s nervous, her hands adjusting various parts of her outfit, but I’m happy to see a sweet smile light up her face as she takes in my appearance. I admit it, I clean up nice. Looking at me now, she’d hardly be able to tell I’m poor white trash.

  An alarm goes off on her cell phone, making us both jump.

  She shoves me back with a dismissive, “We need to go. We’re going to be late.”

  “I thought you said it didn’t start until six-thirty.”

  “It doesn’t. My father wants us there early.”

  “So, by late you mean not early enough,” I chide. She’s unamused. Anxiety rises back up in her features and I decide to cut her some slack. “Well, we better get going then. Wouldn’t want to be just on time.” I reach my hand out to her. She takes it and I lead us off to my truck.

  When we pull into Elizabeth’s driveway, I’m dumbfounded. I knew she was rich, but I had no idea how rich until we drove up to her family’s mansion.

  Yes, mansion.

  The word house doesn’t cut it trying to describe the four-story brick monstrosity the size of a full city block we drive up to. It’s got massive windows, two-story columns and a water fountain taller than I am. It’s literally a mansion on an estate. We passed tennis courts and a horse stable on the way in. A fucking horse stable! I’ve never even ridden a horse, much less needed an entire stable to keep a bunch of them in.

  “Holy shit, are you a fucking Rockefeller or something?”

  Elizabeth doesn’t answer me. I don’t think she even heard me. She’s playing with the edge of her cardigan, fidgeting. She’s jittery, like she’s the one who’s in way over her head rather than me.

  “What’s wrong?” No answer. “Elizabeth?”

  She finally looks up at me when I call her name.

  “What? Nothing. Why would something be wrong?” Her eyes are locked on the front door like she’s expecting to see a horde of evil clowns come streaming out at any minute to murder us both. I grab her flittering fingers and give her a reassuring squeeze.

  “You’ve got a shit poker face, Goose.”

  Elizabeth lets out a sigh and squeezes my hand right back.

  “I hate these things. Everyone still sees me as some weird and pathetic eight-year-old. Delicate. That’s what my mother always used to tell people.” Her voice has an edge of terror to it.

  Shit, she’s seriously intimidated by the idea of going inside that house. Her house. To see her family. And I thought I was fucked up. I hop out of the truck, come around to the passenger-side door and pull her out of the cab.

  “What are you doing?” she asks incredulously.

  I take her hands in mine. “You need to shake it out.”

  “The hell I do. Not here,” she snaps at me. I can’t help but snicker at her indignation.

  Delicate, my ass.

  “You don’t have to shimmy. Just shake out your shoulders. Release some of that pent-up tension. You’ll feel better. I promise.” I roll my shoulders to demonstrate. She rolls her eyes in response.

  There’s my girl.

  After a few moments wasted in a staring contest, she rolls her shoulders and we mutter “Loosey-goosey” together a few times. She’s on edge, but at least a little bit of the panic has subsided.

  “Close your eyes,” I urge her. She gives me a sideways glare, unsure of my intentions. “Please,” I add before she complies.

  I drop my forehead to hers and tell her, “You’re not delicate. You’re tenacious. You’re fierce. You’re wild. You’re powerful. You’re my weird little goddess.” I tenderly kiss her lips before stepping back. Her deep chocolate eyes are watery with wonderment.

  No one has ever looked at me this way before. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was love. But it can’t be.

  Not from someone like her.

  Not for someone like me.

  “Shall we?” She doesn’t answer, just walks past me toward the front door. I can’t help but notice she’s standing a little taller now.

  Opulent is the word that comes to mind as we walk around Elizabeth’s house. The f
loors are a spotless marble. All the fixtures are polished gold without a single fingerprint. There are massive portraits lining the walls, all the Wilde forebears glaring down in silent judgment. It is a beautiful mausoleum. A mansion, but not a home.

  This place is something out of a magazine and so are all the people. They have a staged quality to them. Their flaws have been airbrushed into obscurity before publication. Their smiles are wide but their eyes are empty. They see Elizabeth as an ornament, there to be seen, but not held. Admired, but never loved.

  These people are courteous enough, but it doesn’t escape my notice that I’m being judged. I’m used to not being good enough, I expect it. But I’m surprised they seem to be judging Elizabeth too. And not kindly. Nearly every person we talk to makes some snide underhanded comment about her.

  “She is majoring in biology,” Richard tells a colleague as Elizabeth and I stand conspicuously behind him like some zoo exhibit. Elizabeth gives her father a genteel smile despite the fact he got her major wrong.

  “She has done quite well, considering.” Richard talks about Elizabeth as if she’s not standing right behind him.

  Considering? Considering what? That she’s got a world-class prick for a father?

  I take half a step forward only to be met with Elizabeth’s small hand on my chest. I peer down at her, startled.

  “Please, don’t,” she whispers so softly only I can hear. I swallow down my frustration and plaster on a fake smile that matches hers.

  Who knew something called cocktail hour could be such a fucking nightmare? The worst part is standing by, watching Elizabeth smile through the insults. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

  “Beth, darling,” Patricia, the woman introduced to me as the best friend of Elizabeth’s late mother, exclaims. “Richard tells me you have moved out?”

  “Yes, I—” Elizabeth barely starts before Patricia cuts her off.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Patricia pats Elizabeth’s hand in a patronizing reprimand. Elizabeth’s eyes drop to the floor. My jaw clenches.

  Patricia turns to me and adds in mock whisper, “She’s delicate.”

  Fuck this chick.

  “Excuse us, Patricia. Elizabeth promised me a tour of the house before dinner.” I grab Elizabeth’s hand and drag her away. We make ourselves scarce until dinner, wandering the empty rooms hand in hand without saying much.

  Luckily, we’re seated with a few of Richard’s work colleagues for dinner. They are more than happy to talk about golf and the stock market. Our conversation is boring as fuck, but at least I don’t want to punch their teeth in.

  After dinner, everyone is having a drink and mingling. Again. I underestimated how much time rich people spend drinking and talking.

  I’m keeping a close eye on Elizabeth, but I’m too annoyed at her meek demeanor to stay tied to her hip. Instead, I’m hovering by the bar. I’ve got to be sober enough to drive us home, but a drink or two is about the only thing that’s going to help me finish this evening without losing my shit on one of these posh assholes. A Cruella-de-Vil-looking woman approaches me as I nurse my second whiskey.

  She holds out her hand with an, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  I’m not sure if she’s expecting me to shake it or kiss it.

  “Claire Wilde. And you are?”

  “Austin Jacobs. Elizabeth’s boyfriend.” I give her hand a firm shake before dropping it. I’m polite, but not friendly. Claire doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Elizabeth’s boyfriend? Is that so?” Her pursed lips and questioning eyes tell me she’s unconvinced.

  This bitch would definitely make a coat out of puppies.

  “Yes. That is so.” I’ve introduced myself as Elizabeth’s boyfriend about a dozen times tonight. I’m getting pretty comfortable with the title. Having Cruella here challenge it annoys the fuck out of me. It’s not that she thinks Elizabeth is too good for me—that I’d understand.

  Just look at this fucking mansion.

  She casts a judgmental gaze across the room at Elizabeth, eyeing her with a slight shake of her head. She doesn’t believe Elizabeth could have a boyfriend. These people are the reason Elizabeth can’t see her own worth. I catch Elizabeth’s eye. She gives me a nervous smile.

  I hate this version of her, the quiet, timid little girl, letting herself get pushed around. I miss that feisty streak in her that challenges me when I push too hard.

  Cruella puts a manicured hand on my forearm, dragging my attention away from Elizabeth.

  “Well, then, as her favorite aunt, let me say thank you.”

  “Thank you for what exactly, Claire?” I ask, a little lost.

  “For being with our little Beth, of course. It’s really quite sweet of you,” she answers as if it were some great sacrifice on my part.

  Is she thanking me for dating Elizabeth? This woman’s unbelievable.

  “She’s always been such an odd thing,” Cruella says with a tinge of disgust in her voice. “Sweet enough, but so very shy and quiet. Rather eccentric.”

  I down the last of my whiskey in an attempt to keep my mouth shut. I make the mistake of glancing back at Elizabeth. The deep blush on her cheeks and the tears she’s fighting back leave me with no doubt that she heard every word her aunt just said.

  That’s when I lose it.

  “Well, Claire, I’m sorry I’m going to have to disagree with you. I’d call Elizabeth captivating, not eccentric. As far as being quiet goes, I don’t have any complaints. She’s always plenty vocal with me. Maybe she doesn’t have much to say to condescending assholes.” I try to give Cruella my most gentlemanly smile, but I’m struggling to keep my amusement contained as the affronted shock splashes across her face.

  My pleasure’s cut short by the sound of Elizabeth’s shrill voice calling out my name. “Austin. Can I see you outside, please?”

  “Of course, darling,” I call back at her. “Please, excuse me.” I happily make my escape from Elizabeth’s ‘favorite’ aunt.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Elizabeth starts in on me as soon as we’re out of earshot of the rest of her family.

  “Excuse me?” I ask in disbelief. How can she be pissed at me?

  “You just called my aunt Claire a condescending asshole!” She crosses her arms and I try not to think about how sexy Elizabeth is when she’s mad.

  “First of all, I didn’t call her anything. I was making an observation about you. And second, are you seriously pissed at me right now? For defending you?”

  “You weren’t defending me. You’re being rude.”

  “I’m being rude? I get Daddy holds the purse strings and needing to kiss a little ass sometimes, but these people are condescending assholes and you’ve let them talk down to you all fucking night. How am I the dick in this scenario?”

  “You think this is about money? These people are my family!”

  “That doesn’t give them the right to treat you like shit.”

  “They don’t treat me like shit!”

  “Oh, come on. You know better than that.”

  She has to know her family are a bunch of dicks.

  She’s giving me the silent treatment now, arms crossed and glaring at me.

  “And you just sit there and play the demure, good girl. Maybe they wouldn’t treat you like a fucking child if you actually grew up and stopped acting like one.”

  Her mouth drops open at the same time as her arms drop to her sides and her hands ball into fists. For a second, I think she’s going to hit me. I’d deserve it. Instead, she does something much worse.

  She walks away.

  She stops at the threshold of the patio door, turning back just enough to tell me, “Go to hell, Austin.”

  Fuck. I fucked that up.

  I take a few minutes to cool off before I go back inside and find Elizabeth. She’s standing in the foyer saying her goodbyes to her dad. I guess we’re leaving then. I offer a handshake and courteous goodbye to Ric
hard before following Elizabeth out to the truck.

  I try to put my hand on the small of her back to guide her across the driveway, but she picks up her pace to pull away from me. She’s pulled away from me before when she’s felt overwhelmed or scared. But she’s never pulled away out of anger.

  This feels shitty.

  “Keys, please,” she demands when we’re a few feet from the truck. I stare at her confused. “You’ve been drinking. I’m driving home.” She holds out her hand expectantly.

  “I had two drinks in four hours. I’m fine.” I’m nowhere near drunk. I’m not even buzzed. But she doesn’t budge.

  “Either I’m driving or I will call a cab.”

  I’ve never seen her so determined. I decide this isn’t the hill I want to die on. If she wants to drive my piece-of-shit truck home, what the hell do I care? I toss her the keys and climb into the passenger seat.

  Twenty minutes into the drive and she hasn’t said a word to me. She’s got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Her eyes are locked on the road, barely blinking. She’s definitely still pissed. I can’t take the silence any longer.

  “Elizabeth—”

  She cuts me off with a simple, “Don’t.”

  “I just want to—” I swallow my pride and try again to apologize.

  She doesn’t say a word, but I’m silenced by her fucking death stare. If looks could kill, she’d be a WMD.

  “This is total bullshit,” I say. I’m done apologizing now.

  She doesn’t answer, eyes locked back on the road stretching out in front of us.

  “I was the only one at that whole damn party who didn’t treat you like shit, but I’m the one you’re going to scream at?”

  She stares at the road as her eyes narrow and her scowl deepens. The engine whines, telling me she sped up. The highway is deserted, but it’s curvy, dark and lined with trees. She’s too emotional to realize how dangerous it is to drive this road that fast.