That night, at Simran’s instruction, I reply to Frank’s message:Hey! How’s Wednesday afternoon?
Then I put my phone in my desk drawer and burrow my face in my sheets. Even after a wash, my hair still smells faintly of the hot springs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
On Wednesday, I meet Frank at Gloria’s.
It’s a coffee shop on the other end of Gilmore’s downtown, a shoddy runner-up that pales in comparison to Wanda’s perfection. But Frank pitches it as his favorite spot in the neighborhood, and since he’s making the trek in from the city, I don’t fight the suggestion.
Simran wouldn’t hear of my turning down the date, especially once I filled her in on my day with Kush. A good distraction to keep Kush off my mind, as she put it, and it’s not like I disagree with her logic. Pursuing things with Kush is a bad idea, for a million reasons. Not the least of which is the reality of his present disinterest. An alleged childhood crush bears no relevance to his current feelings. His reaction following the party was crystal clear.
Plus, I can’t deny that I’m curious to see the story with Frank through, if only to check off my promise at the start ofsummer to get back out there. I’d been excited about Frank when we first met, and even if nothing comes from today, I want to get comfortable dating again. I’ve been far too closed off since Kamran.
This is what I tell myself as I wait on the white wooden benches outside Gloria’s. And wait. At last, sixteen minutes past the hour, when I’m considering just leaving, I spot Frank in the distance. He’s riding an electric scooter and is dressed in joggers, with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“Rani!” he says, still ten feet away. I rise to my feet as he parks and locks the scooter, trying to conceal how put off I am by his tardiness and mode of transport. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”
My brows furrow, I’m confused by the suggestion that he scootered from Seattle. “Did you—?”
“Oh, I took the train to Gilmore,” he clarifies. “I meant traffic from the station.”
The station is a five-minute walk from Gloria’s, but I choose to let this slide. “Ah,” I say.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says, leaning in to give me a cursory side hug.
I return it with an uncomfortable back pat. “You too,” I say. He opens the door, and we enter the shop together.
“So, how have you been?” he asks as we step into line. “I feel like it’s been ages since I saw you last.”
I tilt my head, uncertain if he’s doing a bit or being earnest. Bewilderment rises when I determine it’s the latter. “I’ve been good,” I say. “Super busy with work, but good.” I glance at him, wondering if he’ll address the elephant in the room, thereasonit’s been ages since we last met. “How have you been?”
He does not. “Great,” he says instead. “Don’t have a ton going on, but it’s been nice to rest and recharge before school starts up again.”
There’s a beat. “Right,” I say. We’re called to the register, and I order a vanilla latte, the only sweet option on the menu. Frank makes a show of covering the six-dollar coffee, practically pushing me off to the side even though I’ve shown no resistance.
“I made you wait,” he says. “So don’t even worry about it.”
We walk around once we have our drinks. My latte feels watered down, more ice than coffee, but I sip it anyways, grateful to have something to busy my hands with.
Despite the bumpy start, I do my best to give Frank the benefit of the doubt and try to have a pleasant time. I’ve committed to the next couple hours, so I might as well be a good sport. As we chat though, I get the unfortunate impression that so much of why I was drawn to Frank at the party was due to being under the influence; everything seems more interesting when drunk. Still, there are moments of levity in our conversation, especially when he talks about his sister, whose basketball team he coaches.
“We finally won our first game of the season,” he tells me. “We’re at a solid one-and-eleven record now.”
“Impressive,” I say. “That calls for a celebration.”
“I mean, the other team only had three girls show,” he says. “But the game still went to overtime.”
“A win is a win,” I say.
He laughs. “That’s what I said.” We’ve drawn close to the Gilmore city park in our walk, and Frank’s eyes brighten whenhe notices the public basketball courts across from us. “Hey,” he says. “Do you wanna play?”
My brows rise. “Like, basketball?” My distaste is clear in the question; I can think of nothing else I’d rather do less at that moment.
“Come on,” he says. “Caitlin Clark, right?”
The callback to our time playing pong at the party almost makes me smile in spite of myself. Frank’s slinging his gym bag around before I can reply. I wince at the embroideredFrancisco Iglesiasacross the front pocket. It is a truly unfortunate full name. He pulls a basketball out of the bag.
“Wow,” I say after a bloated pause. “You came prepared.”
