“We’re leaving,” I say.
“Ooooh,” she sings, grinning as she falls into step beside me. “Is this a random screw-school kind of day, or more of a ‘my hot teacher just looked at me like he remembers exactlyhow close we got on that dance floor and now I need greasy food and denial’ situation?”
She doesn’t even wait for me to answer.
“You definitely spoke to him again,” she says, practically vibrating. “And he definitely looked good. All buttoned-up and broody, probably trying not to think about how your hips felt against his.”
“Sal,” I groan, but I’m grinning. I hate that she knows me so well.
“So where are we going? I’ve got a quiz later, but I’m notthatcommitted to my education. Got a joint?”
I snort. “No joint. Just a desperate need for food that wasn’t burnt to a crisp by someone who hates teenagers.”
“Ugh, rude. Poor Donna. She does her best. Long live the queen of charred chicken nuggets.”
“Let’s hit the buffet up the road,” I say, already turning toward the lot. “I need fried food and an hour away from this place or I’m going to lose it.”
We walk fast, like criminals in the midst of a getaway. I do a quick scan for teachers, then unlock the Jeep. I always park in the back corner, near the exit. Just in case. That probably says something about me, but I’m not unpacking it today.
The sun is brutal, and the black leather seats scorch the backs of my thighs the second I sit down. My car isn’t cute. The paint’s peeling, the AC sounds like it’s choking half the time, but she runs, and she’s mine. Sal’s got a nicer ride thanks to her parents and their endless money that seems to grow on trees, but she’s a passenger princess by nature, so we usually take mine.
She props her feet up on the dash and throws her head back dramatically. “Okay, spill. How hot did he look this morning? On a scale from ‘mmm’ to ‘please ruin my life, sir’?”
I choke on air. “Sal!”
“Oh, don’t ‘Sal’ me. You danced with him all night.He bought you a drink. He spun you around like you were in a Nicholas Sparks movie. And now,plot twist, he’s your freaking teacher. I mean, Sophie. You’re literally living a Wattpad fever dream.”
I groan and thunk my forehead against the steering wheel. “It’s so bad.”
“It’s so hot.”
“He’s my teacher now.”
“Exactly! It’s forbidden. Delicious. Tragic. Like, actual angst porn.”
I flip her off as we pull into the buffet lot.
The place has definitely seen better days. Sticky floors, half the wallpaper peeling off the walls, and every table guaranteed to wobble no matter how many napkins you shove under the legs. But it smells like garlic bread and fried chicken and cheap comfort, so I’m not complaining.
We grab a booth near the dessert table and wait for the waitress. This place is strictly seat-yourself, no rules, no frills. We scroll through our phones in silence for a minute. Sal sends me a video of some guy in a Ghostface mask doing a thirst trap dance in a crop top. Classic. I roll my eyes, but appreciate the distraction.
The waitress wanders over and drops off two menus like she’s on autopilot. I order a Coke, Sal goes for her usual water, her one healthy habit, and we head for the buffet.
I’m halfway through stacking a plate with the worst possible combination of fatty foods, curly fries, fried chicken, and baked beans, when I turn and nearly slam straight into someone.
My plate jerks in my hand, precariously teetering on the edge of crashing to the floor.
I look up.
Of course. Ofcourse.
Mr. Hayes.
He’s holding a to-go container, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows. He looks effortlessly handsome. One of those guys that just wakes up in the morning already perfectly put together. And yeah, he looks good. Unfortunately.
My plate tips and I watch as my chicken fingers slide, everything going still for half a second.
Then his hand is on my arm, steadying me before disaster strikes and we both end up wearing my lunch.
