“Good. Okay, gotta run and get my mom some broth.”
“Tell her I’m thinking of her. I mean, even though I don’t know her.”
“I know what you mean. See you Thursday.”
She disconnected the call, and before I could put my phone away, it buzzed with a text.
I’m coming up to meet with my adviser next Tuesday. See you then?
Robby.Shit. I’d forgotten all about him in the last twenty-four hours. Obviously, he wasn’t that important. Or as important as I’d made him out to be. Whatever.
With no clue how to respond, I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
Later that evening, on the brink of early in the morning, my phone went off again. Back in bed, I was tempted to ignore it and close my eyes.
Anger swelled in me at Robby. How could he demand my attention next week when he’d basically sided with my dad?
Setting my anger aside, I checked the phone and found a text from Price.
Thinking of me?
Actually, I was, but I wasn’t about to admit it to Price. Instead, I set my phone toDO NOT DISTURBand went to sleep.
I was sure there must have been some dating rules as to when and where and how and what I should reply to Price. With zero patience for looking them up or googling what I should do, when I woke up the next morning, I fired off:
Just counting the water marks on my ceiling & waiting for the coffee to finish.
He responded right away.
You sure make a guy work for it.
For what?
A second date. What did you think?
Coffee’s ready. Gtg. Text next time you’re on my side of the water.
After flicking my screen off, I buried myself under the covers and wished what I’d said about the coffee was true.I should go homewas floating through my mind, but I was too stubborn.
Finally, I pulled myself out of the sheets and made coffee and went about my daily routine, trying to forget it all—Price kissing me, Robby coming to town, and missing my dad.
“Michelob,” was shouted at me from across the bar.
“We don’t have it. Try an IPA or something from the draft board,” I hollered back without looking up, continuing to make the drink in front of me.
“What’s that?” the familiar voice asked, still pestering me.
“Gin fizz.”
I knew who it was, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with how Price made me feel.
“I’ll take one of them. Make your life easy.”
“A gin fizz? That’s what you’re gonna drink? You?” I finally looked up, catching his messy hair, sneaking out from the hood of his sweatshirt. It was old, and probably just the right amount of worn-in soft.
“Sure, why not?”
I held up a finger, signaling for him to wait a sec, and delivered the gin concoction down the bar. When I came back, I said, “Because it’s a craft cocktail, and you consider yourself a small-town dude.”
