She smiles over her shoulder at me. “Something like that.”
We fall into silence as I film her. I stop recording after twenty seconds. “Here. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“What time?” she asks, stepping off.
“Ten?”
She nods. “Okay.”
I form my hand into a fist and stick it out. She bumps her fist with mine.
“See ya later, alligator,” she says.
I leave the gym, feeling lighter and content. I pull out my phone, and the group is going off with texts.
Scott: I need help with that fucking history class.
Scott: Dylan, where the hell are you?
Westley: He’s at the gym, not looking at his phone.
Rocky: You need help with history? Are you fucking stupid?
Scott: Apparently.
Rocky: It’s all facts. The facts don’t change.
Scott: Okay, if you’re so fucking smart, write this essay for me.
Rocky: I’m not writing shit for you. Read a goddamn textbook. Where the fuck is Dylan?
I get into my truck.
Dylan: Dylan has entered the chat.
Scott: Bro, get your ass home. I need help stat.
Dylan: I’m starving.
Scott: Where the hell is this new gym? Bring me home food too.
Westley: Me too.
Dylan: Fuck off.
My truck is facing the front of the gym, and I watch as Cecily makes her way across the parking lot. Her royal-blue clothes are bright and eye-catching as she walks across the asphalt, her head down, her phone in hand. Guilt gnaws at me, so I start my engine and roll down the window.
“Ce?” I call out.
She smiles, walking over to me. “Hey.”
“Let me buy you lunch.”
She shakes her head. “No, thank you. That’s nice, but––”
“Come on,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I could pretend I don’t meal prep because I feel bad saying no, but I really do have food waiting at home for me. I don’t like to waste food, Dylan.”
