The whole thing was too fucking weird.
Messaging him again less than twenty-four hours later would make me look desperate, or clingy, or plain strange. Normal people didn’t do that. Normal people waited a reasonable amount of time before reaching out again.
Whatever “reasonable” meant.
I drove home, showered again because I still smelled like hockey equipment, and got ready for my date.
Brooke was already at the restaurant when I arrived, looking stunning in a green dress that matched her eyes. She smiled when she saw me, warm andgenuine, and I felt a familiar pang of guilt for not being more excited about this.
“Hey, handsome.” She stood to kiss my cheek. “Long day?”
“Brutal practice. Coach was on the warpath.”
“Poor baby.” She settled back into her seat and reached for her wine glass. “I ordered us a bottle of the Barolo. Hope that’s okay.”
“Me like hockey. Me like grape juice.”
Her laughter was immediate and pure as she raised her glass in mock salute.
The waiter appeared, poured my glass, and rattled off the specials with practiced enthusiasm. We ordered apps, made small talk about her day, and laughed about a disaster meeting she’d had with a particularly difficult doctor. Everything was easy and pleasant and exactly how a date should go.
So why did I feel like I was performing?
“You’re quiet tonight,” Brooke observed, twirling pasta around her fork. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m really tired.”
“You said that already.”
I had. Twice, actually. It was becoming my default excuse for everything.
“Work stuff,” I tried instead. “Season’s hitting that midpoint grind.”
She nodded, but something in her expressionshifted, a small tightening around her eyes that suggested she wasn’t buying it.
Stupid women and their stupid ESP.
Thankfully, she ignored her spidey sense, and we moved on to her upcoming work trip to Chicago and my schedule for the next few weeks. Something reminded her of a movie she wanted to see and a restaurant a friend had recommended.
It was all surface conversation, pleasant and forgettable.
And my mind kept drifting.
“Skyler.”
I blinked. Brooke was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you wanted dessert.” She paused. “But I don’t think you heard a word I said for the last five minutes.”
Shit.
“I’m sorry. I’m being terrible company tonight.”
“You’re not terrible.” She set down her fork and leaned back in her chair, studying me. “But you’re not here either, not really.”
I wanted to deny it.
