❝You think we're going to live happily ever after? Newsflash: I'm not a fucking princess, you're no prince and this fucked up thing between us is not a fairy tale.❞
Ian raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, unfazed by my outburst. ❝Fairy tales can be...
You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here's a hint— ask yourself who wrote them. I assure you, it wasn't just the women. It's the great male fantasy— all it takes is one dance to know that she's the one. All it takes is the sound of her song from the tower, or a look at her sleeping face. And right away you know— this is the girl in your head, sleeping or dancing or singing in front of you. Yes, girls want their princes, but boys want their princesses just as much. And they don't want a very long courtship. They want to know immediately. —Rachel Cohn, Dash & Lily's Book of Dares (Dash & Lily, #1)
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I take Freya to the closest ice cream parlor; which is about a ten minute, slightly reckless drive away from Ian's tattoo parlor.
It's a small but cute Barbie like place with bubblegum pink walls and baby pink tiles. There are a few booths lining the walls, creating a small passage way to the counter where different flavors of ice cream are being displayed. There are also three guys about my age sitting at one particular booth, shooting me glances. Even the one that's backing me is shooting me not so subtle glances over his shoulder.
I ignore them and turn to Freya, gesturing for us to walk deep inside. The place is cold but it's a welcome feeling considering the scorching sun outside. Freya seems to think so too as we walk side by side to the counter where a pretty girl my age is serving as the cashier and smiling widely— specifically, at me.
"Hey!" She greets and she smiles a bit wider. "Scarlett Anderson, I didn't expect to see you around here."
I give the girl a once over. Choppy, brown hair and brown eyes with tan skin. No make up but she still looks cute. As always, she doesn't look like someone I know but then again, I'm not exactly social with people when I'm at school.
Freya turns to look up at me. "You know her?"
I shrug. "I guess I'm about to," I mutter and I look at the girl again. "Um, hi. What's your name?"
She gestures to her name tag, clipped on a very pink polo shirt. I squint to read the cursive writing. Imogen. "I sat down behind you during History class and stuff. You probably didn't recognize me because of my haircut."
"Yeah, that's probably it," I say and the words sound fake even to my ears. Beside me, Freya clears her throat to suppress a laugh. I ignore her as I take a proper look at Imogen's hair. "Did you... cut it with a pair of scissors?"
She beams. "Yep. Did it myself three days ago," she explains, gesturing to her hair. "It was a spontaneous, out of the blue thing. I like it."
I'm not big on fashion like Father is but even I know that she's in need of a professional to help her layer the hair properly. But I don't voice my opinion. Instead, I lie. "Nice hair. Short hair rocks."
"I know, right?"
I decide not to answer her almost rhetorical question. Instead, I dig into my pocket for a few crumpled bills. I direct my gaze to the counter where selections of different ice cream flavors are laid out for viewing pleasure. I spy basic flavors; vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, chocolate chip, blueberry. I then direct my gaze to Freya. "See anything you like?"
