Read So Over You for Free Online Page B

for damage.
    The clean paintbrushes on the table mocked me with their unsullied bristles. “I have no idea how to start this.”
    “You’re a lot more uptight than I thought you were.”
    That surprised me until I realized he was right. Everything about me was rigid—my stiff arms, my severe posture. I exhaled and shook out my limbs. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tense.”
    “It’s just a mug. If you want, you can put a dot on it and call it done. No pressure.”
    Tyler, on the other hand, busily ran his brush over the mug in front of him. No pressure. Hah. My plain white cup blinked at me like a fully lit neon sign that flashed Failure ! Failure ! “What are you putting on yours?”
    “I can’t tell you. You’ll have to wait until it’s done.”
    I must have picked up and set down everything in front of me at least twice. When I drummed my fingers on the edge, he set down his own brush and leaned back into his chair.
    I expected some sort of reprimand for my nervous energy or lack of participation in the artistic portion of the evening’s program. Instead, Tyler asked me, “What actress would you pick to play you in the movie version of your life?”
    “I can honestly say that I’ve never thought of that. Can I be Humphrey Bogart?”
    “No.”
    “Does she have to be living?”
    “It would make it easier to cast her in the role, but I suppose for you we can make an exception.”
    “Fine. I’ll play it your way. That girl who plays Veronica Mars.”
    “You kind of look like her.”
    “What about you? Who plays Tyler in the movie of your life?”
    “Elvis Presley.”
    “Nice. I think people would spend the $12.50 to see Elvis and Veronica Mars on a date in a pottery-painting store, don’t you?”
    “Box-office hit written all over it.”
    We chatted some more and he told me lovely stories about growing up in Hawaii, where his grandparents still lived. The way he described the fresh pineapple made my mouth water, and I could almost smell coconuts. Tyler came from a long line of storytellers, and I really believe he could carry on the tradition.
    He still wouldn’t let me see the mug, though, even going so far as to sneak it up the store employee. I assumed that meant that I would end up keeping the one he made for me, which meant the one I had in front of me was going to have to be for him.
    I picked up the brush again when he went to restroom and painted the words:
     
    I went on a date with Veronica Mars, and all I got was this lousy coffee mug.

     
    The nice lady came and got it from me, explaining that the King of Rock and Roll already made arrangements to pick them up next week and deliver mine to me.
    When Tyler sat down, I smiled.
    “Why are you smiling?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining. You don’t look constipated anymore at least.”
    “I don’t know,” I answered. “I think I just like you. Is that weird?”
    “Yeah.”
    I didn’t have a lot of friends. Okay, I didn’t have any friends. I mean, I wasn’t like scary loner in a black trench coat; I did function and interact with people. And people interested me—as a writer, how could they not? But I didn’t have anyone my own age to share confidences with. I talked to Mr. Blake about career planning and stuff like that. My mom consoled me when I needed to vent about school. Through the years, I would hang out with the upperclassmen on the paper staff on the weekends—but now that I was the upperclassmen, I was sort of alone.
    Which normally didn’t bother me so much. But just hanging out with Tyler made me feel—normal, I guess. His easygoing manner suited me. That he would never make me hold his hair while throwing up or borrow my favorite shirt and never return it made him even more appealing.
    “I’ll tell you why I’m smiling if you tell me what you put on that mug.”
    Santa Elvis just smiled.
    “Fine. I guess we both have our secrets. Do you want to come over on Sunday and watch football with me after