“I call her Cabby Cat, but her real name is Caboose.”
“Caboose.” He pauses. “The last one.”
“Yeah.” I stroke Cabby’s head, and she purrs. “Okay, favorite band?” I’ve asked this question on countless other dates, but this is the first time I’ve found myself eager to hear the response.
“Easy. Journey.”
I sit up. “No way.” The words slip out in my excitement. Cabby Cat meows at me in protest as she finds a new spot on my lap.
“Is that a good response or a bad one?” he asks.
“Good one. I love Journey. I went through a stint in high school where I listened to ‘Faithfully’ on repeat for months on end.”
“Really?” He laughs, and his voice seems to brighten.
For the next twenty minutes, Ian and I ping-pong questions back and forth, but as opposed to my disastrous diner date a few weeks ago—and basically all the other dates, for that matter—I find that for every question he asks me, I have three more I want to ask him. He’s funny, thoughtful, and a good conversationalist.
When I hang up the phone, I feel antsy, eager for time to pass a little faster. I’m actually looking forward to Saturday.
On Saturday night, I wear a mauve dress that’s classy enough to say “I put effort into looking nice” but casual enough to have pockets. I leave my hair down in long, loose waves that travel halfway down my back. And since it’s summer, I slip on a pair of strappy sandals to complete the ensemble.
Then I look in the mirror, shifting from side to side. For a brief moment, I wonder if Jordan will like the dress, but that thought is quickly replaced by wondering if Ian will like it. And that fills me with hope. It’s been a long time since anyone has even come close to usurping Jordan’s spot in my mental space. If being with Ian tonight is half as good as our conversation on Wednesday night, then I have every reason to believe this might be the start of something new. Somethingrequited.
At precisely six o’clock, I park my car beside the Indian restaurant. I quickly check my mirror to make sure my makeup isn’t smudged before popping out and smoothing down my dress. My stomach is a strange concoction of excitement and nerves, and I try to tame them before I see my date for the first time.
I wonder what Ian will look like. Tall, dark, and handsome? Nerdy and short? Thin and balding? Strangely, I’m not overly concerned about his physical features. When Zia said Ian was a ten, I pictured muscles and a sharp jawline, but this guy was at least a nine with his words alone. Good looks would just be the cherry on top at this point.
I take a deep breath before rounding the corner, knowing Ian should be by the restaurant’s entrance as he’d told me on the phone.
But when I finally turn that corner, I am unprepared for what I see.
The man standing there is definitely attractive. He’s got dark-brown hair, broad shoulders, and a crooked smile that couldmake any other girl swoon. But I know that smile too well to be deceived.
“Ian,” I say flatly.
This is not random-stranger Ian. This is high school ex-boyfriend Ian. He Who Must Not Be Named.
I turn around immediately, planning to walk right back to my car.
“Paige, wait!” he calls after me. Ian’s voice is so much lower than that of the sixteen-year-old boy I dated almost seven years ago. Little wonder I didn’t recognize him over the phone.
Ian runs after me, but as we come around the restaurant, we end up face-to-face with Zia and Jordan.
Jordan looks at me, at my dress, then back up to my face, and for half a moment, something sparks in his eyes. Appreciation? Attraction? Whatever it is, the look is quickly snuffed out when he sees the man standing behind me.
I can tell the exact moment Jordan notices Ian because Jordan’s jaw clenches—and so do his fists. I’ve never seen Jordan throw a punch, but tonight might end that streak.
Zia’s eyebrows draw together as Jordan, Ian, and I all look at one another in one epic standoff. No one speaks and no one moves, but tension stretches between the three of us like a tightrope.
Chapter 10
PAIGE
· SIX YEARS AND NINE MONTHS EARLIER ·
Last night, no one could have convinced me that I would be sandwiched between a bush and a brick wall, trying to jimmy a faucet at six-fifteen in the morning. Then again, no one could have convinced me that my boyfriend of two years would have cheated on me last night, either.
Now I’m choking on a slice of humble pie as my cold, sore fingers grip and twist a faucet outside my high school for what feels like the hundredth time.
