“Don’t mind him?” I parrot, flicking my eyes in Ryder’s direction, who’s now sitting at his rowdy table.
Blondie, who seemed annoyed earlier, is in his lap, consoling him, her arm wrapped around his neck as she whispers some shit in his ear. Ryder glances at me, a megawatt smile splitting his conceited lips.
Annoyed, embarrassed, and beyond sexually frustrated, I grit my teeth and turn on my heel. “He’s an asshole.”
“That asshole’s my best friend.”
I whip around, but Asshole’s buddy chucks his two cents into the tension-wired air before I can.
“Still, there’s no disputing his assholeness. It defines brutal, some of the worst shit out there.” His emerald eyes light up in amusement, a grin hugging his lips as he rests a forearm on a metal post. “I also think his mother breast-fed him longer than what’s deemed socially appropriate, so that could be the culprit to his problem.”
I raise a brow, watching as the dude before me chuckles at his joke.
“My name’s Brock Cunningham. I was bottle-fed, so I’m nothing like my friend, and I might be wrong, but you look like you could use some help.” Somewhat cautiously, Brock reaches for the mountainous stack of books and papers that are slipping from my grasp.
With little resistance, I allow him to take half the pile.
“Cunningham, huh?” Anger waning some, I make my way toward a table and decide that sitting with a group of geeky debate team members suits me. “As in Richie Cunningham?”
“Richie?” Confusion peppers his voice.
“Yeah, Richie Cunningham from Happy Days.” I claim a seat next to a freak wearing Coke-bottle eyeglasses, drop my half of the stack of books on the table, and watch Brock pull out a chair across from me. “It’s only the best sitcom from the seventies,” I continue. “You have to have seen it.”
Expression bewildered, he scratches his jaw. The sun dripping in through the windows catches his eyes, their flecks of gold shimmering like diamonds. I see a twinkle of mischievousness in their mossy green depths that feels familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
I freeze, only just now realizing how sickeningly good-looking Asshole’s best friend is.
To be honest, he’s equally as good-looking as Asshole, but in a different way. The angles of his face aren’t as hard and defined; they’re softer, less intimidating. His hair’s lighter, its blond-caramel blend reminding me of cream soda. I lick my lips, my fingers tingling to test if the wavy strands feel as soft as they look. His boyish smile makes my heart thump erratically, and I find myself getting lost in the cute, confused look planted on his face.
“Now you have me curious,” he says. “I have no idea who Richie Cunningham is, or Happy Days.” He shrugs, his smile broadening. “You gotta give me something.”
I can’t believe I’m about to go there.
I clear my throat, gather my nerve, and do just that.
I go there.
I sing the show’s theme song, trying to hit the notes without shattering the windows. Forget about the nomads sitting at the table, who are now looking at me like I’m the freak; a chuckle escapes Brock’s throat, and I want to find the nearest bridge and jump right off it.
“Although you have a beautiful voice,” Brock points out, “I can’t say I’ve ever heard that song before.”
“You’re seriously deprived, Cunningham. You are aware of this, right?”
I adamantly believe this. It’s my generation’s loss that they didn’t grow up watching Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham raise the perfect family. Happy Days was exactly that.
Happy days.
Days when parents didn’t get high, craving their next hit more than they craved a hug from their child. Days when that child wasn’t left scared, hungry, and alone without a whisper of heat to keep her warm when winter gripped the city. Days when innocent eyes didn’t witness bloodshed in the home where they were supposed to feel safe, unharmed, loved.
I steal myself away from my dark, shadowy past as Brock clasps his hands behind his neck. “I might be deprived because I haven’t watched this show you’re talking about, but I felt deprived before you sang that . . . weird melody.”
“Weird?” A frown crinkles my forehead. “It’s so not even close to being weird.”
“Sure as shit it’s weird.” Brock crosses his arms, his gaze locked on mine. “Still, you made me like it more than I should.”
His flirtatious stare makes me swallow hard. What the hell’s wrong with me today? I’m convinced the Frappuccino I inhaled earlier was laced with some kind of date-rape drug, because this is the second time in ten minutes that the opposite sex has made me feel high.
I draw in a calming breath and attempt to divert the conversation. “So, uh . . . why did you feel deprived before I sang my ‘weird’ melody?”
The tiniest of smiles tugs his lips. “That’s because I don’t know the name of the beautiful girl who sings weird songs on introduction.” He shrugs, his pectoral muscles bulging beneath his polo shirt. “It’s impossible not to feel deprived without that information. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss . . . ?”
Oh, he’s good.
I release the breath I’m holding, my nerves cracking my response into a whisper. “Ber.”
“Ber?” He spikes an incredulous brow, his smile widening. “No doubt that’s a . . . different name, but I’m digging it.”