“Getting there.”
The waiter appears with menus and water. We order without really looking—spaghetti and meatballs for both of us, because that’s what we get when we come here under ordinary circumstances of the “just friends” variety.
Once we’re alone again, she whispers, “How do we do the fake dinner date in public?”
“I guess we just ... talk? Like we normally do?”
“But more couple-y?”
“Is couple-y a word?”
She laughs. I laugh. We’re both laughing, and just like that, the tension eases. This is us. This is what we do. We make each other laugh.
The food arrives faster than expected and we’re faced with a giant plate of spaghetti to share—family style.
“This will require a doggy bag,” April observes after we say the blessing.
“Old school Italian-American portions.”
“I will be taking the dogs on an extra-long walk tomorrow.”
I’m about to respond when April twirls her fork in the spaghetti, lifts it to her mouth, and somehow—impossibly—the same strand I’m eating ends up between us.
We both freeze.
The strand connects us like a bridge between friends and more. Suddenly, all I can think about is the Lady and the Tramp scene where the dogs kind of kiss over a shared bowl of noodles.
It’s April’s favorite movie. Her eyes widen. She must be thinking it too.
Do we go for it? We’re supposed to be a couple. This is prime couple content. The photographer is definitely getting this shot.
But it’s also terrifying, yet something I want more than the delicious meal.
I lean forward slightly. April does too. The strand grows shorter between us.
Closer.
Closer still.
Our lips are mere inches apart when someone interrupts.
“Oh my gosh, is that Clark Culpepper?!”
We both jerk back as Sophia Snodgrass-Schuster appears at our table, phone already out, smile greedy and nosy and very small town.
“And April! How sweet. Although ...” She taps her chin with one perfectly manicured finger. “Didn’t someone say you two were siblings? I could’ve sworn I saw that somewhere.”
My jaw tightens. This is exactly the kind of rumor Sophia loves to spread. According to Grady and some of the other guys, she’s been the queen bee of Cobbiton gossip since high school, and apparently, marriage and motherhood haven’t mellowed her appetite to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.
“We’re not siblings,” I say firmly.
“Oh, I see that now. But you can understand the confusion, right? You’re always together. He’s always carrying your things. Standing so close ...” She’s fishing forinformation.
April tenses beside me.
“That’s because she’s my girlfriend,” I say, louder than necessary. Loud enough that occupants of several of the nearby tables turn to look. “April is my girlfriend. Not my sister. Not my friend. Mygirlfriend.”
The word echoes through the restaurant.
