Reading Pippa’s lips, one of which is still slightly swollen, she almost speaks the same words.
“Sorry about that. My mother?—”
“Mine too.”
I gesture for her to go ahead of me into the dining room. She walks a few steps in front of me and I take a moment to appreciate the view I so often spent admiring while seatedbehind her in class, waiting for her to turn around. When she does now, we’re so close. I’m struck by her big brown eyes. Full lips. Smooth features.
I’ve spent years chasing a football, but now I have my sights set on a girl. A girl I thought was out of my grasp, my league, and out of my life for good. I screwed up the first time and sent her running. I screwed up a second time with moon-gate and found my way back to her.
The pressure is on. I can’t mess up again.
We enter the dining room with a table set for two. Candles flicker in sconces on the wall and between the place settings.
Without prompting, I pull out the chair and gesture for Pippa to take a seat. After the prom truth bomb that dropped, I’m sure we’ve cleared the air, but silence joins us at the table. Long, awkward silence as we sit there composed and proper with our hands in our laps while the server pours water.
My phone, on silent, vibrates. “Sorry about that.”
Hers does the same. Her forehead wrinkles as she ignores it. “Me too. Should’ve left it in my room. My mum has been calling nonstop, pestering me?—”
“Mine too.”
Our gazes catch.
“Is yours asking you about the, um, courtship?” I take a long sip of water.
She nods slowly. “She checks in every day to ask about progress with my suitor.”
I nearly choke on a piece of ice. “I take it that would be me.”
“And the courtship would refer to me?” she asks.
“And that’s putting it mildly. My mother has our entire future mapped out.”
“I can say the same for my mum.”
We start comparing the plans, beginning with the proposal and ending with grandchildren.
“I think they’ve been conspiring,” I say, playful accusation filling my voice.
Pippa claps her hand on the table. “You’re right.” She goes on to complain about how her mother has been on her nonstop, day and night.
I nod in agreement. As the similarities overlap and complement each other, laughter grows between us, but gets stuck somewhere, as if not sure where we stand.
“So,” I say.
“So,” she repeats.
A clock ticks loudly in the background.
I adjust my fork and knife.
She smooths the napkin on her lap.
We just barely make darty eye contact. Instead, we both fuss and fidget like we didn’t just have an important conversation. That she didn’t accept my apology or kiss me on the cheek earlier.
Clearing my throat, I say, “We’ve officially entered Awkwardville, population two. I’ll be your tour guide for the next hour.”
The corner of Pippa’s lip twitches. She points to a tapestry of the countryside on the wall. “Nice scenery.”
