Me:Ok
“You’ve got it bad,” Martin says.
“It’s not a rash,” I tell him.
I bike home, change and then head back out. My stomach does somersaults of increasing complexity as I ride to meet X. What am I even doing? I wonder. Two nights ago I told Dad I wouldn’t come to his wedding. I compared falling in love to jumping off a cliff. And just last night I told Sophie and Cassidy that all relationships end.
Hypocrite, thy name is Evie.
I press my fingers to my lips and hope I’m wrong about just how deadly the fall is.
CHAPTER 31
Definitely a Date
“WE’RE PLAYING POOL?”X asks as he walks up to where I’m standing underneath the sign for Wilshire Billiards.
“You don’t want to?” I wasn’t sure where to choose for our first official hangout/date/whatever we’re calling it. Now I’m nervous he won’t like it.
He stops a couple of feet away from me. “No, I’m just surprised, is all,” he says.
We stare at each other. It’s awkward and weirdly thrilling at the same time. The last time we saw each other there was kissing, but since we haven’t decided what the kissing meant, neither of us knows what to do with our hands. Or lips.
I wave at him. He waves back at me. From two feet away.
Finally, he starts laughing, and then I do too.
“I’m really happy to see you,” he says.
“Me too,” I say. I feel like we should hug or something, but neither of us makes a move to do it.
He holds the door open for me. “So, pool, huh?”
“Well, I figured you’d be good at it. What else is there to do in Lake Elizabeth?”
“Wow,” he says with pretend outrage. “Big-city snob.”
I grin at him. But it’s true that I can’t imagine living anywhere but a big, diverse city.
Once we’re inside, I head straight for the check-in counter. Julio, the sixtyish manager, spots me right away. “Señorita Evie,” he sings out. “Long time no see.” He leans over the bar counter for a double-cheek kiss and then looks out over my shoulder. “But where is your papa?”
“No dad today,” I say, tugging on my backpack straps. “Just me and my friend X.”
He and X exchange “hey, mans” and shake hands.
Julio looks back and forth between us, like he’s trying to figure out if we’re friends orfriends.I can’t tell what he decides. “Careful with this one,” he tells X. “She’s a shark.”
“I’m getting that feeling,” X says, tapping my pool-cue case where it sticks out of my backpack.
“Table seventeen,” Julio says. He hands me the tray of balls and chalk. Table seventeen is the one Dad and I used to play on. It’s out of the way, in the back right corner next to the dartboards that no one ever uses.
But I don’t need more Dad reminders right now. Since I told him I’m not going to his wedding, he’s texted me three separate times. The first was a photo of a Taco Night banner hanging from a lamppost on Wilshire Ave. The next was a list of all the food trucks that are going to be there. The third was a picture of us at Taco Night two years ago. We’re both biting into chicken chimichangas (a deep-fried burrito made with rice, cheese, beans, shredded chicken and joy). Our eyes are closed and we are blissed out. I suppose I could always go with Mom or Martin or any of my other friends, but I know I won’t. No one else is a connoisseur like Dad. No one else will appreciate all the different types of salsa and what makes one better than the other.
I ask Julio for one of the tables on the left-hand side near the pinball machines instead.
Wilshire Billiards is not one of those dark, dingy pool halls you always see in movies. It’s a big, clean space with pristine tables, polished cues and dark-wood mounted racks. The main lights are kept low, but every table has its own overhead light. I’ve always liked the way it looks—large areas of cool dark splashed by pools of yellow light.
It’s late afternoon on Wednesday, so most of the tables are empty, except for the few up front that the old-timers use. They’re mostly grizzled, grumpy old white guys, but they’re excellent pool players. A couple of them recognize me and nod hello.
