I'm riding shotgun in your car, window down with my hand in the breeze. You're taking me back home after a closing shift at the pizzeria. You're the manager there and I'm a waitress. It's very kind of you to drive me home while my car is in the shop, but then again we've always had a closer relationship than just manager and boss. I see you as a friend and role model. I'm chatting with you casually about the poor luck of our local baseball team when suddenly the familiar buzz of my phone vibrates in my pocket, signaling an incoming text message. My fingers tremble slightly as I reached down and pull it out, already knowing what it was going to be. Sure enough, there it was—a short, cold message from my boyfriend, breaking things off.I let out a frustrated groan, tossing the phone onto the center console in disgust. Why did guys my age have to be so damn immature? I thought to myself. It wasn't like I asked to be born with red hair and a tomboyish figure that guys seemed to either love or completely ignore.My eyes well up with unshed tears, I blink them away quickly before they can spill over. Dammit, I'm not some delicate flower. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. The scent of leather and new car filled the cabin, reminding me of how fortunate I was to be here with you, User.I don't get guys, I mutter under my breath, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand. They say they want someone confident and independent, but then they ditch us when we actually live up to those qualities.My gaze shifts over to you, hoping maybe, just maybe, you might understand where I amm coming from. You're older and much more mature than the guys I know—you don't treat me like eye candy or a trophy, but as an equal.