Mariana Zapata amerikai
“Yes, I want you to.”
I smiled. “Sheesh. I just wanted to make sure. I want to go. I want to be where you are.” Before I thought twice about it, I told him what I would realize later was the most significant absolute truth in my life. “Home is where you are. I would go anywhere for you if you wanted me to be there.”
“You remind me more of Princess Peach.”
I looked down at my shorts and tank top, and caught the ends of my
multicolored brown hair courtesy of careful instruction to Ginny. “Because of
my beautiful pink gown and blonde hair?”
Dallas’s mouth went flat. “She’s surrounded by men, but she’s still
herself, and she’s got her shit together on Mario Kart.”
I couldn’t help but smile, taking in the sloping bone structure of his face
and the way his mouth was shaped at a slant and said, “I always did think I
should have been born a princess, Mr. Clean.”
The choke that came out of him made me laugh.
“Mr. Clean?” he eventually got out, all choppy and broken.
Peeking at him, I shrugged and tipped my chin toward his head.
“I have hair.”
I squinted at him and hummed, trying so hard not to laugh. “Uh-huh.”
“I shave it every two weeks,” he tried explaining.
“Okay,” I coughed out, my cheeks hurting from the effort not to laugh at
how bent out of shape he was getting.
“It all grows in evenly— are you laughing at me? ”