“A dimple pop smile,” Whit adds.
Cara bobs her eyebrows. “That’s a ‘Clark just texted me’ smile.”
“I don’t have a special smile for when Clark texts me.” I frown.
“You absolutely do,” they chorus.
I grumble, then tell them about the adoption meet and greet.
Margo clasps her hands together. “That’s perfect! Low pressure, lots of dogs, familiar for both of you.”
“Right. Easy peasy.” I pause. “It’s not like we’ll be making out at an adoption event or anything.”
I open and close my mouth, wishing I had a net and could take that specific phrase back.
“Whoa,” Whit says slowly with a whistle. “That escalated quickly.”
My face heats. “I just meant—it’s a family-friendly setting, so there won’t be any—we’re not going to?—”
“But you have thought about it?” Ella asks innocently.
“I haven’t.” But the lie is barely above a whisper. Sure, the kiss cam was brief. Very PG. But then we had our practice kiss. I am still shellshocked. But I’m not giving them more fodder. They all stare at me as if they have a collective case of X-ray vision. Clark and I have discussed superpowers at length and agree that X-ray vision would be more of a hindrance than a help when it comes to saving the world.
“Fine! Maybe I’ve thought about it. A little. Like once or twice. Or a million times.” I slump back in my chair. “The kiss cam kiss was ... it was ...”
“Good?” Gracie supplies.
I all but swoon. “His lips were so soft and he smelled like evergreen and for three seconds, I forgot we were in front of thousands of people. But that’s not the point! The point is, we have to keep things appropriate. Friendly.”
“Friendly fake boyfriend and girlfriend, which is a step up from friends.” Jess snaps her fingers. “Got it.”
Gracie leans forward in full romance book store owner mode. “Fake dating in romance novels follows a pretty standard progression. You start with eye contact that produces butterflies. Next come the small touches—hand holding, standing close together. Then you graduate to more couple-y behavior—his arm around your shoulders, sitting close at restaurants. Eventually, you build up to the bigger displays of affection.”
“But we’re not following a fictional progression,” I protest … though this is fake. Also, I have buffalo, not butterflies. “Or just physical.”
“Aren’t you, though?” Cara grins. “The campaign runs through May, right? That’s basically a full romance novel timeline. Meet cute—which you had ten years ago, by the way—conflict, rising action?—”
“I’ve taught you so well,” Gracie says proudly.
Face flaming, I wave my hands because I, too, know what comes next.
“The black moment. Then the resolution,” Cara says solemnly.
“We already had our black moment. It was called high school when he said I was like a sister to him.”
The girls make various sounds of sympathy.
“But maybe,” Gracie says softly, “this is your second chance. Your re-meet cute.”
We spend the next hour actually discussing the book—a second-chance romance. I try very hard not to make direct comparisons to my situation.
I fail dramatically.
When I get home, I can’t help but ruminate on every little thing. What the girls said. Clark’s texts.
I pick at the edge of the bandage Clark applied after I got tangled in the dog leashes the other day. Then I start questioning the merits of a slow peel or just tearing it off—literally, as well as related to any and all conversations he and I have about our status. I carefully remove the first half of the bandage and am glad to see the scratch is healed. Then I rip the rest of it off, which results in a yelp.
Will that happen with Clark if I tell him the truth or will keeping it to myself mean continued agony?
