Extraits

“Maybe he used to like me, but I doubt he does anymore, now that I’ve insulted his bird fetish.”

Peter smiled. “He’s not going to stop liking you over one little argument. I don’t think he’s the type to just fall for someone and then hate them the next day. We don’t live in that kind of world anymore, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when there were thousands of possible mates to choose from, it was like being a huge candy store with a billion types of sugary things to choose from. You could sample one of everything and not worry about whether you’d like it much or whatever, because there was always another jar of candy nearby. But now, there’s no candy store. There’s a single jawbreaker that you found in the gutter. And there are no more jawbreaker factories. No more candy stores. No more refined sugar. That one jawbreaker you found could be the only one you’ll ever have again. You aren’t going to just eat it and say goodbye.”

His analogy wasn’t perfect but I saw where he was going with it. “So I’m like a jawbreaker. A dirty one you find in the gutter.”

“Yeah. And he likes that candy. It’s his favorite. So he doesn’t care that it has smelly feet.”

I scowled at him. “How do you know he likes jawbreakers so much?”

“I just know. I can tell a good match when I see one. He needs someone spunky and tough, someone different than other girls. That’s you.”

I smiled, liking how Peter had described me. “But what if he just decides to eat it real quick and then move on? I mean, there are other jawbreakers out there. They’re just more rare.”

“That’s not how he is. He’s methodical. A thinking person. He’s not rash. And he knows his odds of finding a jawbreaker of this flavor? Are pretty slim.”

“I’ve seen him do some stupid, rash things … like going after the candy at the Cracker Barrel.”

“That was all a very carefully-crafted way of making sure he had a good grip on his jawbreaker. He wants to keep the candy happy. Keep it sweet.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh. Your analogy is making me want to eye gouge you right now.”

“Holy mackerel, mother of baby fishes, is that a bed?”

J'ai souri. Ce gamin n'avait pas idée d'à qui il avait affaire. La seule raison pour laquelle je n'avais pas retiré ce flingue et l'avais immobilisé avec un rapide coup dans la gorge était parce que je ne voulais pas qu'il panique plus qu'il ne le faisait déjà. En plus, je détestais faire mal aux gens qui faisaient à peine la moitié de ma taille et qui pesaient si peu.

- Qu'est-ce que tu vas faire, mec ? Me tirer dessus ?

- Peut-être, dit-il obstinément.

- Oui bien sûr. Nan je crois pas. Pas aujourd'hui, en tout cas.

Je me suis retournée pour m'en aller.

- Attends ! a-t-il dit, d'un ton désespéré.

- Quoi ? ai-je répondu en me tournant à moitié.

- Tu as dit que tu avais des pâtes ?

- Ouais. Et alors ?

- J'ai de la sauce.

J'ai écarquillé les yeux. De la sauce sur les pâtes me faisait l'effet d'un dîner de dix plats au restaurant le plus chic du monde, en ce moment.