That’s right… Paul. I almost forgot about him.
Whoops.
Now… in which movie does the girl completely forget about her date?
Fourteen
I stareat myself in the mirror, unsure if my flare jeans and striped puff-sleeve tee are on point for a soccer game.
“Do I look like a fan?” I ask Rosalie.
“I really can’t tell you. I know as much about soccer as you do?—”
I lift one finger, cutting her off. “Doubtful! I learned a lot last night.”
“Well, you look great. You’re meeting him there, right? This stranger isn’t picking you up?” Rosalie eyes me like I am her child. She’ll be a good mother one day—loving, fun, and her kids will get away with nothing.
“Callum is not a stranger. Not anymore. And he can’t pick me up.” I shake my head at her, a blank stare on my face. “He’s playing.”
Rosalie clears her throat. “I’m talking about Paul. The guy who saved your life yesterday. Not the guy who kissed you outside a bar.”
“Wow. My life is so eventful.” Also, I completely forgot about Paul—again. Shoot. I have got to quit doing that. In mydefense, he hasn’t been around that long. I huff out a breath and flick my bangs from my eyes. “Yes, I’m meeting him there. I texted him his ticket yesterday after Callum sent them.” I bite my inner cheek and spin around to meet Rosalie head-on. I’ve been so consumed with the game and learning that I also forgot— “CRAP! I haven’t planned anything for this date, Rose.” I bite my bottom lip and think. “Maybe we couldFever Pitchor something.” My brain reels with random ideas. But I’m running out of time.
“Stop. Just go on a regular date—this one time. I promise it’ll be okay.”
I flail my arms, dropping them to my sides. “What would the point of that be?”
Rosalie scoffs and deadpans, “To have fun. To talk. To get to know someone.”
I scoff right back. “Callum can’t even sit with me. He’ll be playing. I don’t think we’ll be able to chat it up.”
Rosalie sighs. “I’m talking about Paul, Fran. Your date. Remember?”
“Crap!” I smack my palm to my face. “I keep forgetting about him.” Even though I can’t seem to remember my little saving grace named Paul Fender, I’m still hopeful we’ll make a connection. Because Ishouldlike him more. Everything about our chance meeting screamedhappy ending.
“Are you sure you want to be going with him?”
“Geez, Rose, stop worrying. You aren’t my mom.” It’s an odd thing for me to say, because I’m not sure my mom would care even a little about anyone I’m dating—as long as I am grown and taking care of myself.
“Paul.”I walk into the stadium plaza with a nervous little bounce in my step. “Paul. Paul Fender, life saver extraordinaire.” I mutter my date’s name to myself, willing myself to remember the man.
I haven’t seen him yet, but I won’t be forgetting him—not tonight. My stinging knee and sore bottom should be my constant reminder.
I walk over the grass and pass through the entrance gate with my ticket. Callum said he left me something at Will Call. I’m not sure what—seeing how I have my ticket. Still, I see the small booth right by the ticket entrance.
I head over and peer at the man behind the glass. “Fran Fairchild. I think something?—”
He smiles. “Whitaker’s friend. Yeah.” He reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a red and gold pad.
I knit my brows and grin. “What is it?”
“A stadium seat.” He peers at the thing. “Memory foam. This is a quality pad.”
There’s a sticky note on the front of the cushion, and my Will Call friend pauses, reading the note in his head. He chuckles to himself before passing the seat through the long, narrow opening in the glass separating us.
I reach for the square pad, feeling the soft, denseness of the cushion. I take in the yellow sticky note and read Callum’s messy script:
Sending good vibes to your booty.
