I snag her gaze and linger there. “I agree.”
“Do you come here often?”
“That’s supposed to be my cheesy line.”
We both laugh nervously, as though not sure how to proceed in this new territory where the air is clear and there’s a crackling in it that we cannot deny.
“This is awkward, huh?” I say.
“Yep.” Her lips pop and she bites down on the bottom one, then remembers it’s still healing.
“You hold the title of the only woman on earth who can cause me to be tongue-tied.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
I take a sip of water, hoping that’ll loosen things up. My phone vibrates. “How does she expect me to use any of her tips or follow instructions if she keeps interrupting?”
“Is this what it would have been like had I stayed at the table in the dining hall instead of running away?” Pippa asks.
“No. We would’ve talked about prom and—actually, we probably both would’ve been clueless and it would’ve been painfully awkward.”
“Dancing at prom would’ve been torture. We probably would’ve been afraid to touch. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“What did people even talk about in high school?”
With a laugh, she rolls her eyes. “They talked about me, swapping Pippa stories. Everyone has a story about me.” She mentions the online alumni group again.
“Think of it this way. You’re memorable. I certainly never forgot about you.”
At that, our gazes hold for a long moment. All threads of awkwardness dissolve and we both laugh.
This time, her phone interrupts us.
“What if I proposed a fake engagement until our parents come to their senses?” I tell Pippa about a movie my sister made me watch with that plot thread.
Pippa’s expression turns thoughtful. “Sounds like it could be fun or go terribly wrong. Given my weird luck, I’d better not push it. I’m not getting engaged unless it’s for real.”
Relief sweeps through me, but not because that means I’m off the hook. No, it gives me hope because that means I can do things on my terms. But before I can respond, our phones buzz in concert.
“Want to get out of here and leave our phones behind?” she asks.
“What? Really? Don’t you have to evaluate me?”
“I know that you know how to conduct yourself at a meal. Which fork to use and when, the importance of pacing yourself with the host, how to indicate you’re done eating, etcetera.”
“We can thank Hodgson for that,” I say, referring to our history teacher’s segment on polite society.
“Professor Hodgson,” she corrects in a well-mannered accent.
I burst into laughter at Pippa imitating the teacher at Hinnifin.
“I think we should leave this dining room and go to—” She bites the edge of her lip again. “A place that’s the opposite of here.”
“Like a hot dog cart or a greasy spoon diner?” I ask.
It’s her turn to laugh. “Let’s start with someplace less formal. For your lesson, I’ll, um, examine how you handle yourself in that environment,” she says as if coming up with the plan on the fly.
“Will I still get full credit?” I ask.
