“Oh.”
You stifle a grunt as Brody kicks you under the table again.
“No one’s asked me yet,” you say.
Wow.
Subtle.
Why is this so hard?
“Oh my god,” Brody blurts out. You spin back to face him. “Would you two get a room already?”
Mariana’s smile falls. “Excuse me?” she says.
Your face isn’t the only thing that’s hot now. Your skin is on fire. Your chest, too.
“Brody—” you warn, but he keeps going.
“If you don’t ask him to the dance, he might die of blue balls.”
Mariana’s face twists. She backs away, shaking her head.
“Wait,” you say, trying to get up, but your ankle gets caught on the chair leg and you stagger as you stand, nearly upending your table.
“Whoa!” Brody says, trying to right it, while you step toward Mariana, but she keeps backing away.
If the eyes are the window to the soul, someone closed the blinds in hers.
“I’ll see you around, Dayton.”
She turns and goes.
You’re not hot anymore, you’re cold. You think you want to cry.
You don’t cry. You’re not going to. Definitely not in this Starbucks full of strangers.
Definitely not in front of Brody.
You turn back. Brody’s mopped up the spilled latte and is trying to gather up the ice from your lemonade.
“You wanna help clean up your mess, man?”
You run to the counter and grab a wad of napkins, yanking them out of the metal holder thing when they get stuck, so some of them rip in the corner.
“How could you do that?” you ask as you scoop ice back into your plastic cup.
“Come on, it was just a joke.”
“You were supposed to be my wingman.”
“You know you have to try to land the plane at some point, right?”
“You totally grossed her out.” You’re whisper shouting, but even so, people are staring.
And Brody looks… hurt?
You’re not sure. His shoulders are drawn in. He’s rolled his sleeves back down. He’s slouching.
