I keep my eyes forward, pretending I don’t notice him watching me, but I can feel the weight of his curious gaze. It lingers, and Ihatethat I like it.
Something about tonightdoesfeel different.
As if we’re not two people stuck on a double date because Macy demanded it. As if we’re not just fulfilling some weird social obligation because of our best friends. As if maybe—maybe—this is somethingreal.
A girl can pretend, can’t she? No harm in that.
Does he feel that way, too?
Glancing down, I look at our arms, both on the rest between our seats; I could move my hand—put more space between us—but I don’t.
Neither does he.
My heart flips. I exhale.
It must have been louder than I intended, because he nudges me, leaning over the armrest to whisper, “What was that sighfor?”
“Huh?” I play dumb.
“Are you bored already? We’ve been sitting here less than twenty minutes.”
“I’m not bored.”
Confession: I have zero desire to sit through a movie about a doll who comes to life and murders her entire family. Such a funtime. I’d rather be watching a rom-com, but hey—this two hours of torture means I get to sit next to him and bask in his nearness. Bask in his elbow touching mine on the armrest, our hands meeting in the tub of popcorn.
He continues leaning toward me, invading my space. “You’re definitely acting weird.”
“No I’m not,” I protest. “You must be imagining things.”
“Whatever you say.”
Easton shifts away, facing forward again, his focus locked on the screen. Shadows stretch across the walls, the eerie glow of the movie making everything feel more intense. That ugly-ass doll and her unnerving expression will haunt me in my dreams tonight…
I shiver, reaching for the popcorn—not because I’m hungry for it but because I need something to do with my hands, something to ground me.
I can’t stop sneaking glances, no matter how hard I try. He’s tooirresistible, too effortlessly distracting. And now, watchinghimis way more interesting than watching the actual movie.
I want him to look atme.
Every now and then he shifts in his seat and our arms brush—and each timethathappens, a jolt of electricity shoots through my body.
Gah!
I adjust my seat, moving the footrest up, then back, wishing I had a blanket. Peel open the chocolate candy Easton bought and then plunk the bucket of popcorn in my lap. I settle into a routine: handful of popcorn, handful of chocolate.
I am eating my anxiety away.
“Are you even paying attention?” His voice comes out of the dark, low and accusing.
I pop a Sno-Cap on my tongue. Let it melt. “Nope.” Not even a little.
“I thought you wanted to see this?” he whisper-hisses.
“Who told you that? Like I said, I am as much a hostage to them as you are,” I inform him indignantly. “Never would I ever pick a movie like this. It’s horrible.”
Horror is not my vibe.
“We could have gone to see a comedy or something—we didn’t all have to see the same movie.”
