My head spins as I register the fact that I’m still alive leaving only one conclusion. “And is that what you told him?” I yell. “That I’m your girlfriend?”
He nods. “I don’t think he bought it. Guess you’re not my usual type.”
I don’t ask—though I’m dying to—what his usual type is. I’m guessing college educated, comes from a good family, and definitely knows the difference between a juicer and an espresso maker.
“He wants you to come to the house this weekend. There’s a party for my sister. She’s gotten herself engaged, and the families and friends are getting together.”
I shake my head. I hadn’t just run from one jacked up mess to jump into another. “No. No way.”
“It’s not a request.”
I swallow. I know these “non-request” types. Not people I want to piss off. “Oh no, no. Listen. I a
