Complicated Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

stereotype itself, and not the person.”
    “I’m not gay,” he says. “But between you and me, if a couple of guys with expensive shoes come into my shop and get excited over redecorating an entire house, I do start to speak… a little more like this .” His voice goes up and becomes more precise. “ That sideboard absolutely must not be split up from the matching table. ”
    “You’re bad,” I say, laughing. I keep looking around, and Duncan busies himself with some paperwork behind the counter.
    After a minute, he says, completely out of the blue, “You’re pretty.”
    “What?” I look around to see if someone else has come in the door.
    “I have an eye for beauty,” he explains. “I go to auctions all the time, and I always get the deals. The key is being able to spot value, being able to tell trash from the real deal.”
    I frown at him, unsure if I should be offended or flattered. “So, you’re saying I’m not trash?”
    “I’m saying you’re the real deal, and you’re pretty. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”
    His words are probably said with a kind intent, but they still sting to hear. I snap back with, “You’re not my type, either. I like a guy with balls.”
    His mouth opens, like he’s about to say something brutal—something I probably deserve to hear—but then he stops himself. “Good luck with that,” he says softly as he pulls his phone from his pocket.
    I cross my arms, hunch over to make myself small, and weave my way around the furniture. “This place is like a maze,” I mutter under my breath.
    “Good to see you,” he calls after me. “I’m heading out of town for a few days, but I’ll see you around.”
    I drop venom-filled words like water bombs. “Not if I see you first!”

Chapter 6

    I am ashamed of how desperately I want to be loved.
    Six days have gone by since my failed apology to Duncan, and I still feel lousy about my inability to be nice.
    It’s Tuesday, and I’ve taken the entire day off work, just so I can make ridiculously complicated treats for the self-help group tonight.
    I’m being silly. Those carboholics would be more than happy with a simple jelly roll, or cookies. But here I am, slaving away in my mother’s kitchen all day, making petit fours —tiny French tea cakes with delicate flower decorations.
    I’ve been planning this since last Wednesday, when my attempts to make amends with Duncan at the antiques store blew up in my face.
    I keep trying to procrastinate my anxiety, but I can’t push away these thoughts about Duncan. (Duncan, then Drew, then Duncan again. I’m cursed by problems with D-named guys. Must be something in my horoscope.)
    Now Duncan’s in my head. He’s not paying rent in there, but he’s my noisy tenant and I can’t kick him out.
    Duncan’s words keep ringing in my ears. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”
    Whenever someone asks you to not take something the wrong way, they should have the decency to explain exactly how you’re supposed to take it the right way. He said: not my type. What the hell? Is that supposed to be a compliment? It’s not like Duncan said, “I like wrinkly old ladies with big hairy moles, therefore you’re not my type.”
    He said he had an eye for beauty, or value, or something like that. I don’t remember that part. Just the kick in the ovaries that was his not-my-type rejection.
    I’m finally finished toiling over the petit fours , and I carefully transfer them over to a serving tray. Now I have a new problem. They’re too perfect. Everyone will think I bought them from a bakery. Growling with impatience, I grab some leftover icing and petals, and smudge up a third of them so they don’t look so perfect.
    “Meenie, you are unhinged,” I mutter to myself.
    I get ready for group, rummaging through my closet for a fresh shirt. I want something with attitude, so I grab my trusty ‘I Love Beijing’