“You ready to go?” I ask as I rejoin him.
He nods and grabs my hand, giving it a soft squeeze before leading us toward the parking lot. It doesn’t register until we get outside that he said “his car.”
“You got it fixed?” I ask.
“Yeah. Karis and the guys came by last week and got her running again.”
“Her?”
“Yup. Kori, meet Brandy—with aY.”
I’m not sure what I expected, but an old muscle car somehow both fits and seems wrong. The poor thing is covered in rust and cracks. It’s the furthest thing from a shining example of a vehicle well cared for. Gage has to fold himself like a pretzel to even fit inside, and he doesn’t look comfortable crammed into the front seat.
“She’s…”
“A piece of shit. But she’s mine.”
The engine rattles over roaring exhaust as he pulls out of the lot and onto the street, but that is the only sound in the car. He doesn’t even turn the radio on. The silence gnaws at me; I can’t tell if it’s the good type or the bad type. Probably bad, since I’m wondering about it, but my date doesn’t seem perturbed.
Conversation shouldn’t be this hard. It’s not like I haven’t talked to him since he showed up at my dorm—we’ve texted. Well, mostly I’ve texted, but he’s always given me a response. Maybe I misread the situation and spent the past few days bombarding him with an endless, unwanted stream of my inner thoughts. Maybe he’s merely trying to get through tonight to be polite, and then he’ll tell me he never wants to see me again.
My leg starts to bounce, shaking the whole car with it. I don’t move for long. His hand crosses the center console and finds a place to rest on my thigh, halting the motion. The touch is unexpected but not unwelcome. Those calloused fingers rub against my bare skin, leaving trails of tingling sparks in their wake.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just nervous,” I tell him and force my leg still.
“Me too,” he says with a chuckle that matches his words. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”
“Done what? Made small talk in a car?”
“Well, yeah. But I meant the whole date thing.”
“Oh.”
His confession settles some of the buzzing energy in me. I never got the impression that Gage is the type who sleeps around—not that there’s anything wrong with that. He just gives off major leave-me-alone vibes—but I figured he’d have way more experience with this whole thing than me. Knowing he’s equally as lost makes it easier somehow—like I’m not alone in this.
“I’ve never actually been on a real date,” I say, and his hand tightens on my thigh. Not in a painful way, but hard enough that I notice the change.
“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath. “Kori, this feels weird even asking, but am I the first man you’ve ever been with? Was that your first kiss the other day at the gym?”
The serious switch in his tone causes laughter to bubble up in my chest. There is nothing funny about the situation, but my choices are either laugh or shrink under the uncomfortable weight of his questions.
“No. You aren’t my first.” His shoulders relax at my words, so I keep talking. “I had a boyfriend back in high school, but we didn’t do the whole date thing. He said it was a waste of time when we could skip that and go back to his place.”
His spine snaps back to rigid attention, and the muscles in his jaw flex from how hard he clenches his teeth. For several seconds, he doesn’t say a word while he calms himself with a series of deep breaths.
“Spoiling you could never be a waste of time.” The words are said with so much confidence, I almost believe him.
The parking lot in front of the large craftsmen-style house-turned-restaurant is packed. Gage finds a spot, and before I caneven get myself unbuckled, he is out of the car and walking around to open my door. He offers me a hand, helping me climb out, and keeps his fingers locked with mine as he leads me toward the entrance.
Inside, he gives our reservation details to a well-dressed host, who leads us to a clothed, candle-lit table in the back. My date rubs his hand over the back of his neck and sits in the too-small chair. The host hands us tiny half sheets of paper that she dubs our “menu” and leaves us to our own devices.
I read over the selection, and then do it again because I’m clearly missing something.Radicchio? Gastrique?I don’t even know what half the words on the menu mean. Is it too much to ask for chicken nuggets? Hell, I’d take a simple steak. And six options? What kind of restaurant only has six options? Nothing comes close to resembling any of my safe foods. If each entrée wasn’t fifty dollars, I’d be more willing to try something, but not when it’s on Gage’s dime—he made it explicitly clear that I wouldn’t be paying a cent despite my protests.
“Is everything all right?”
A lie bubbles up, but I stop myself before I tell him everything is fine. How can I expect no bullshit if I bullshit him?
