...rdquo; MJ quipped. I’m sure that to her I’m an open book. You can’t hide much from the girl who sows your tights.
For once I lay back and relax, thinking about how lucky I am. I’m alive. MJ loves me. Gwen doesn’t want to kill me anymore. Even Aunt May has been lightening up a little bit.
Gwen folds her arms behind her head, talking at the ceiling. “Your such a good guy, Peter. I swear to God. I don’t know how you can possibly put up with half the crap of what you do.”
“I need a psychiatrist.”
Gwen chuckles a little, “No. I need a psychiatrist.”
MJ leaned back, resting her head on my stomach. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah.” I had to agree with her. She was fine in every way I could think of. She has those big friendly green eyes, flame red hair and a face that makes angels cry. Not to mention a body that… Ut oh… I’m a fifteen-year-old guy and her heads close to… Think about baseball, Peter.
Gwen digs her hands into the pockets of her jeans, “I wasn’t going to shoot you.”
Now it was my turn to smirk, “I know.”
“How do you know?” There goes Gwen again, trying to be the bad girl.