“Where’re you going?” I watch him walk across the grass, picking up our bicycles. “Hey! Explain yourself.”
“Don’t move!” he shouts back.
He returns when both teams are jogging past each other, arms extended for high-fives. I like baseball, but not with the same enthusiasm as Alex, wholovessports—a religious football watcher, a casual baseball player and lifelong fan, collector of cards. It’s disappointing that he missed the end of the game when, of the two of us, he’d have enjoyed it more. A familiar honk has me panning the parking lot.
He’s leaning against the driver’s door. Holds up a hand when I spot him.
I sprint over. “You missed the end!”
“Had to go pick up the truck. And I took your bike home.”
“I could’ve gone with you.”
“Your poor legs, remember?”
I saythank youwith a kiss.
Once inside the cab, he drapes across my lap a throw blanket that he must’ve grabbed from his house. “Date’s not over. Pit Stop, Mozzi’s, or the deli from Moonville Market for a late dinner? I’m sick of Half Moon Mill’s food, and Our Little Secret’s doing their spaghetti western thing. They put too many onions in their spaghetti.”
We grab calzones from Mozzi’s and park on a hill overlooking the rushing current of Twinstar Fork while we eat. “So. Why Oreton, town traitor?”
He coughs on a meatball. “Sheesh. I don’t know... Oreton’s fine. Doesn’t have you, that’s about all that’s wrong with it, though.”
I pepper him with another question. “Who’s the dog in that picture you texted me?”
“That’s Bert Handsome. He’s Miles’s best friend and goes with him everywhere, which means I get weekend custody.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“What color underwear have you got on?”
This man is impossible. “Give me a real answer.”
He snaps up the bottom of my skort dress. “Black.”
I pinch his leg. “What’s your favorite song nowadays? Still Weezer?”
“Weezer’s a band, not a song. My favorite song is ‘4Runner’ at the moment. Changes with my mood.”
I cock my head. “I recognize the name of that song.”
“No, you don’t.” He rolls my window up and down in a weird bid to distract me.
“It’s from your playlist!” I shake his arm. “The one you’ve forbidden me from listening to.”
“Forbidding it was a mistake. Forbidding made it sexier.”
“You’re right, you should let me listen. Hey, what’s your favorite movie?”
“I didn’t study for this quiz, Romina.”
“It’s your favorite movie, not the Pythagorean theorem. Surely you have a favorite movie.”
He casts around, as if the concept of having a favorite movie is totally foreign to him. “Mamma Mia?”
“Seriously?”
“It was on TV the night before Mom’s wedding, after you scrambled my brain with your mouth. I don’t remember a thing about that movie.” His smile is wistful. “But damn, was I feeling great.”
