Dear Diary,

I HATE HIM. IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim-

The bastard.

I don't fucking care if he's my brother's best friend, or the best basketball player in town or even has enough girls swooning around him to make you vomit.

It doesn't escape the fact, that under all that steely facade and hot-headed dynamo, he is just another stupid JOCK.

I can't believe I've been so blind, for so long. And although what happened tonight, after I'd arrived from that shopping trip, will upset me for quite some time-I'm glad it happened cos now I know Bruce Solomon's true colors. And boy, aren't they pretty.

It started out simply enough-Ruth had loaned me the Jimmy Choo's she had just bought this afternoon, and I HAD planned to put them into action-but nothing, NOTHING prepared me for how soon that'd be.

I walked into the living room, my legs on the verge of collapsing underneath me. "I'M HO-Oh."

My loud yell broke of into a squeak as I realised that Bruce was on the couch, furiously battling with himself as he veered around a corner (on the screen) to reach Level 28 on his video-game. I don't know why I was so panicked, considering that this exact scenario has happened many times in the past. Bruce didn't even glance sideways at me, instead choosing to continue wrestling with his game controller.

"Hey," he greeted, as I continued to steel myself with quick little breaths. On any other normal Saturday, that would have been end of conversation. I would have mumbled hey back and legged it up the stairs to entertain myself till dinner-time, which Bruce normally stayed over for too. (What do I mean too? This IS MY HOUSE!)

But today was different. Today, I will be a brave and adventurous woman. Today was- holy crap-He's pausing his game!

All logical responses flew out of my mind, as he turned those jade green orbs towards me. He looked confused, as if he didn't know whether I was about to offer him popcorn or whether I was going to run screaming through the house, stark naked.

"You OK?" he asked, after probably coming to the conclusion that I was going to do neither. To him it was clear that both situations were as unlikely as the other.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I asked him, " I need your opinion. I'm going to go to a party, and I need to know if these shoes look good on me, okay?"

Bruce only looked all the more confused, putting down his control pad altogether and giving me his undivided attention. "You want me to give you, fashion advice?"

God, why did he have to say it like that? It was almost like he was mocking me.

Taking the initiative, I fished out the shoes dropping the shoebox to my feet and held it up to eye-level. I positioned it so the straps directly blocked his intense gaze from my own. "What do you think?" I asked, much too brightly. It was then, doubts began to fly into my mind. Why was I doing this? Who cared if Bruce was straight or gay? Why did I even care?

Bruce's response couldn't have been more drawn-out, even if he tried. "Erm...okay...I...I...guess..." and then, "Aren't you trying them on?"

I was fully aware that Bruce's gaze was fixated on me, as I began on the cursed task of strapping the buckle. By my fifth try, and my face an agonizing red of humiliation, I couldn't take the embarassment any longer and instead buried my head in my lap, with my un-tied shoes cutting circulation to my feet already.

Hearing the couch creak with movement, I refused to look up at his sure-to-be patronizing expression. But when no scathing voice broke the peace, I dared to peek up with suspiciously red eyes.

The last thing I expected was for Bruce to be crouched by my feet and his feather-light touches to grace my ankles, as he set to work in buckling my shoes. I felt like a 5-year-old again being taught to tie her shoelaces, and with each burning graze of his warm palms; I was mesmerised as he deftly weaved the laces before sliding it home under the buckle.

"Jimmy Choo, huh?"

The spell was broken by his quiet voice, as his fingers lingered by my ankle for longer than necessary.

At the moment, Ruth's disembodied voice-Gay boys always know their designer-floated into my head. I'd-I'd done it! I'd proved Bruce was gay! But the most alarming question was: Why wasn't I feeling happy about it?

God- mom's calling me to come for dinner-I can't go down! How can I possibly sit opposite him and happily sip herbal tea? Not after what he said.

It's. Not. Happening.

I'll continue later

X

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A/N: In this diary entry, the writer is interrupted (by her mom calling her for dinner) before she completes exactly what transpired between Her and Bruce. (Bruce and her?)

She'll continue the tale, in the next entry.

Review, and I'll post (: If there's no reviews, then there's no reason for me to post. I might as well just keep the remaining chapters of this story on Word, and enjoy it myself (:

So review, please?