"You look perfect," I say.
She blinks up at me. "Oh. Thanks."
We stand there for a second, and I realize I'm supposed to move.
"Car's over here," she says, gesturing toward her driveway.
Right. The car. I follow her, and when she unlocks it, I open the passenger door and fold myself into the seat.
The car is small. A compact sedan that probably gets great gas mileage and fits approximately none of me comfortably. My knees are practically touching the dashboard even with the seat pushed all the way back.
She slides into the driver's seat and glances over at me. "Sorry. I know it's tight. I wasn't really thinking about... leg room when I bought it."
"It's fine."
It's not fine. It's torture. Because she's right there, less than two feet away, and the car smells like her and I can see the curve of her thigh where the dress has ridden up slightly and I need to get a grip before I say something unforgivable.
She starts the car and pulls out of the driveway, and I force myself to look out the window.
"So, the restaurant is about forty-five minutes away," she says. "My parents picked it because apparently it's the only place within a hundred miles that meets their standards."
"What are their standards?"
"Overpriced and pretentious," she says with a laugh. "My mom probably looked up the most expensive place she could find just to make a point."
"What point?"
"That I'm wasting my life in a small town when I could be eating at fancy restaurants in the city whenever I want." She shakes her head. "They don't get it. They think I moved here because I'm running away from something, not because I'm running toward something."
"What are you running toward?"
She's quiet for a moment. "I don't know yet. That's the whole point. I want to figure it out without them telling me what it should be."
I look over at her. She's focused on the road, hands at ten and two, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
"You're brave," I say.
She laughs. "I'm really not."
"Yeah, you are."
She glances at me, then back at the road. "Thanks. That's... thank you."
We fall into silence, but it's not uncomfortable. The sun is setting, painting the sky orange and pink, and the road stretches out ahead of us through fields and farmland.
I should say something. Make conversation. That's what people do.
But I don't trust myself to talk right now. Not when she's this close. Not when every time she shifts in her seat, I catch a hint of her perfume. Not when I’m aware of every breath she takes, every movement of her hands on the wheel.
"Can I ask you something?" she says after a while.
"Yeah."
"Why'd you say yes? To this whole fake dating thing."
My heart kicks into overdrive. "You needed help."
"I know, but you could've said no. Most people would've said no. It's a weird thing to ask someone you barely know."
