22
" So I go to the circulation desk, grab a piece of paper, and write, I like your books. Then I slip it to her as I walk by, which, in hindsight, was creepy as fuck and a terrible error in judgment.” “Why?” “Because I have abysmal penmanship.” I grab a paper napkin and ask Hollis if she has a pen—she does—then write I like your books. Hand it to her. “I like your boobs?” “It says books.” “It says boobs.” “See? Do you see now where this all went wrong? Do you see now where this story is headed?” “Don’t say another word or I’m going to choke on this taco.” Her skin is bright red and she’s about to burst out laughing; I can see her holding it in. She is about to freakin’ explode. Obviously I say more words. “So she thinks I’m telling her I like her tits—er, boobs—which were probably sagging down to the ground, mind you.” I shiver at the memory. “Instead of confronting me about it, the lady goes and tells the librarian there is a pervy sexual harasser on the premises. She goes and tells the security guard, and he yanks my audiobook selections out of my viselike grip and escorts me out. God, I was so humiliated—Betty from non-fiction and I made eye contact, and I’ve never felt so ashamed.” “Stop it.” Tears are welling up in her eyes. “No. She told her friend Ethel, who is a member of the Bellmont Readers, who told my mother.” “This is too much.” She’s swatting at the air between us. “You’re making this up.” “They took my card away, Hollis! You don’t joke about this shit. I’m no longer welcome at any library within the tri-state area, thanks to my shoddy handwriting "
― Sara Ney , Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends, #2)
24
" Mom, this is Hollis,” I mumble to myself, locking the car with the remote and heading into the garage. “No, no, go on in. I’ll just start the grill. No, I insist,” I pout, deserted and alone. "
― Sara Ney , Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends, #2)
26
" Oh my god your mother is adorable,” Hollis is saying. “Jesus, I hate lying and I hate you right now. Look how excited she is, you asshole.” She pushes her car door open and steps out. “Mrs. Wallace, hiiiiii!” Women. I’ll never understand them. How can she be hissing obscenities at me one second then going at my mother like they’re long-lost sisters? I climb out at a leisurely pace, giving them time to greet each other without my interference, and then amble over, hands in my pockets. “Mom, this is—” “Hollis, come inside. Trace Robert, can you get the grill going out back? Your father is dragging his feet.” Then she ushers my date into the house, leaving me standing there, the entire speech I prepared a complete waste of time. “Mom, this is Hollis,” I mumble to myself, locking the car with the remote and heading into the garage. “No, no, go on in. I’ll just start the grill. No, I insist,” I pout, deserted and alone. "
― Sara Ney , Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends, #2)
