Would it be a date?
Dumbass, of course it would be a date, Caden chides me in my head.
Unless she doesn’t want it to be a date.
I can go to the movies with a friend.
How’s that any different from sitting in the living room and watching TV with her?
“That sounds fun,” she finally says.
Do not push dinner too. Do not push dinner too. Do not—“My favorite burger place is right by the IMAX.”
The pink is spreading in her cheeks. It’s splotchy, like it was the morning I met her at her hotel parking lot. “Does your favorite burger place serve good fries?”
“Definegood fries.”
“Shoestring. Golden-brown. Not burnt at any edges.Maybewith ranch dressing. Maybe.”
“Walking on the wild side there.”
“I haven’t reliably kept anything but potatoes down in the last month.”
“You haven’t eaten anything but potatoes and a single rotisserie chicken in the last month.”
She grimaces. “The rotisserie chicken is why I don’t trustthe new ranch dressing craving.”
I shouldn’t smile at that, but it’s difficult not to.
“You haven’t clarified if these French fries are shoestring or not,” she says.
“What’s the size between shoestring and wedges?”
“Steak fries or standard cut?”
“What’s the normal size fries that’s one size up from shoestring?”
“Standard cut. Steak fries are one size bigger, then wedges are the biggest.”
“They’re standard fries then.”
“Battered?”
“Battered?” I repeat. “What’sbattered fries?”
“The kind with the extra delicious outside because they’ve been tossed in batter.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She gasps.
She actually gasps.
“Is this like when you pretended you didn’t know who Vitamin Man was?” she asks.
This?
This feels good. Ziggy and I are developing a history. We have inside jokes. We have stories. We’re friends.
