I flash him a thumbs-up.
“I’m gonna go take a nap—I’m on the midnight shift tonight.” Hesmiles. “I guess this is where I say something supportive, so—have fun tonight, okay? And don’t be a dick, Cheyenne seems like a catch.”
I’M PARKED A BLOCK AWAYfrom the restaurant, but I can’t get out of the car—my hands are locked to the steering wheel. It took every drop of self-restraint I have not to text Carrie. I literally had to bury my phone deep in my pocket to stop myself.
Shewas the one who pushed me into this in the first place, I remind myself. I’m seeing this through. I’ve got so many questions, and she’s not giving me any answers—so why the hell not?
It takes me three tries to get my seat belt unfastened, and before I know it, I’m out on the sidewalk, my feet dragging as I slope up the street.
Along the way, I bump into Cheyenne.
“Seems like we’re in sync.” She smiles, pulling me in for a quick hug.
Her fragrance makes my stomach turn, and I do my best to hide it.
She links an arm through mine. “I’m starving.”
“Same.”
I fall into step with her as we push open the door to the restaurant, and just as I’m pulling out her chair, Carrie’s approving nod flashes before my eyes, and I smile to myself.
“How was your day?” Cheyenne asks, fiddling with the cutlery.
“Good. Some homework. Lots of practice.”
All kinds of practice.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
I’m expecting something more, but she falls silent. I watch her smooth out the tablecloth—she’s fidgety, I notice. She even reminds me of Carrie a little with those glasses, but… less cute.Oh fuck off! Carrie this, Carrie that… Enough already.
“This place looks nice,” she says, reaching for the saltshaker.
The way she keeps messing with stuff is driving me crazy.
Come on, Donovan. Focus.
“They do amazing milkshakes,” I say brightly.
Suddenly, Carrie’s milk hack pops into my mind, and no matter how hard I try to imagine screwing Cheyenne right here on the table between us, no matter how perfect the setting—there’s no spark.
“I’m lactose intolerant.”
My mouth falls open.
There goes the spilled-milk strategy.Is this a sign?
I sift through the safe topics I ran through with Carrie earlier, and I’m wondering whether to start a conversation about the latest blockbuster or global politics, when our server arrives just in time to save my sorry ass. I make a point of asking her a million questions about the food. Anything to delay the inevitable.
When finally she drifts off to the kitchen, I’m bereft.
I turn back to Cheyenne.
“I saw your first game, by the way.” She smiles. “It was incredible. The way you snagged that ball just before halftime… Especially considering how wide open that guy was.”
I don’t know what’s more impressive—the fact that she’s managed to string more than one sentence together, or the way she remembers our first scrimmage.
“You’re into basketball?”
