Page 6 of The Puck Bunny

“Deal.” I open my door. “See you in the a.m. Thanks for the ride.”

“One more thing.” He pauses and I wait for him to tell me his puppy died or something. “Don’t encourage Jonas with his puck bunny activity. He can’t afford trouble. He’s not a superstar.”

I hear the rest of his unspoken words—like you are.

CHAPTER 3

SARA

How is it possible that the next day is a normal, sunny, fall day with crowds of people going about their business on the way to lunch as if nothing ever happened? And I’m one of them, acting like my life didn’t just change, acting as if I didn’t actually meet my dream man and decide with scary-firm finality that he will be my big O-giver, the guy who will open up the heavenly flood gates to pussy ecstasy.

If only Mr. Potter, my poetry professor, could hear my thoughts now. He’d lose it in his pants and give me an A+ instead of that undernourished B-, the only grade below A- I ever got in college because I worked my tushy off for three and three-quarter years but had a lapse at the end of my senior year. It was, of course, guy related. Bu I’m over it.

Billie Mae snaps her fingers in front of my face and grabs my arm, steering me into the corner entrance of Pizzeria Regina in the north end of Boston, otherwise known as our favorite lunch spot and the reason I run the beach in Revere, rain or shine, every morning.

“What’s with you?” She pushes open the door and I rush inside, heading straight for my favorite booth in the corner. It’s worn and comfy in spite of the fact that it’s made of wood and has no padding.

The waitress comes over without menus or a pad and pen like she does for other customers. “The usual?” She shifts her gaze between us, a semi-friendly smile on her face.

I’ll have to up the tips again and see if I can get a full smile out of her. Friendly talk and asking about her family certainly didn’t work and twenty percent tips haven’t worked. But I am determined to make it happen—to get a big, fat grin out of that clearly overworked and unhappy woman.

“Yes, please. Thank you so much, Maria.” Billie Mae smiles is extra bright.

Maria leaves, unimpressed.

I lean in and whisper, “We’re going to have to tip big today. Maybe up it to thirty percent.”

“If that doesn’t do it, there’s no hope.” She shakes her head.

Whatever keeps Maria from utter happiness with her job doesn’t slow her down at least, and she returns with two glasses filled with red wine that looks like grape juice because they don’t believe in wine glasses here.

“Did you watch last night’s game?” Billie Mae asks. “Sorry I couldn’t watch with you, but I had to give Karl a try.” She scrunches her nose.

“Another dud?”

She nods.

“Gotta give you credit for not giving up. How many swipe dates have you been on?”

“I prefer not to keep count any longer. It could be discouraging and I’m determined to stay positive.” She arches a brow, but I don’t question her.

It’s a bone of contention between us because she’s been trying to get me to try app-dating all summer and I can’t bring myself to do it. Nothing says the opposite of romance like swiping through anonymous photos for a date.

But there’s no question I need to do something before she runs off into the sunset with some guy and leaves me behind. Not physically, but every other way.

The waitress delivers our pepperoni pizza with extra olive oil, two red-and-white checkered paper plates, a pile of napkins, and no silverware, then leaves without a word or a glance. Once she’d told us to give it a minute because it was hot, but I guess that was a one-time warning we’re trusted to remember at the risk of burning off the roof of our mouths. It’s the extra olive oil that makes this a particularly dangerous risk.

As I’m about to delve in because I’m starving, having forgone breakfast in favor of running the beach so I can justify indulging in our regular Wednesday greasy pizza lunch, Billie Mae leans in to ask her question again.

“So, did you watch the game? What did you think of you-know-who?”

“You can say his name, Billie. It’s not like he’s Voldemort or something.” I know she’s caught my evasion when she doesn’t scold me for calling her Billie instead of Billie Mae—a definite no-no because she doesn’t want to be confused as some tomboy.

“Interesting. Who did you watch with?”

“A bunch of strangers at a bar.” I figuring I have a fifty-fifty shot that she won’t believe the truth because it’s so unlike me. She knows very well that when I’m not at her place, I normally stay home and watch the games on TV, sometimes with my younger brother.

She freezes with her pizza halfway to her mouth and I’m kind of glad I saved her from certain mouth-sizzling pain. She slowly lowers her pizza back down as I meet her carefully controlled expression—because Billie Mae never loses her cool.