“I perform from an angry place,” she says, and I can hear a smile in her voice. “I don’t think that’s what you need for this dinner.”
“Then tell me what’s okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“No stupid nicknames.”
I feign shock. “You mean when characters fake date in the movies and they call each other ridiculous names no one uses in real life, you don’t think it sounds organic?”
“As organic as Cheetos,” she says. “I’ll accept honey or babe.”
“I’ll take those plus sweetie. What else?”
“No kisses on the mouth. No one wants to see that at dinner.”
“True.”
“I hate it when guys order for me, but you probably should because it’ll make it seem like you know what I like. I don’t eat any salad with iceberg in it, I hate olives, and I want the most expensive steak on the menu. Other than that, I’m pretty easy, food-wise.”
“Now you have to give me at least five facts about you that I would only know from dating you.”
She sighs but doesn’t argue. “I majored in English before I switched to nursing. I’m allergic to cats. My favorite food is veggie pizza. I hate scary movies. I have no siblings. My mom is also a nurse.” She hesitates. “Bonus fact: I don’t know my dad, and I don’t talk about it.”
I take it all in and squeeze her hand. “Veggie pizza? Who hurt you, Samantha?”
She laughs, and we spend the last ten minutes of the drive talking about our favorites from TV shows to bands.
It’s a light conversation, but I still feel like I know her as well as the last girl I dated by the time we pull up to the country club.
She looks through the car window and takes a deep breath while we wait for the valet.
“Nervous?” I ask.
There is the barest pause before she says, “No.”
“It’ll be fine. Act like the most privileged girl in Pi Phi, and you’ll sail through the evening. Piece of cake.”
“You’re the worst.” Her voice is mild, and I let my smile widen to a grin as I hand my keys to the valet.
This is going to work. I’ll get rid of Presley while impressing my parents, all in one dinner. This is definitely one of my more genius plans.
Chapter Thirteen
Sami
Thishasgottobe one of the dumbest situations I’ve ever gotten myself into. And I have a secret life as a wannabe rock star, so that’s saying something.
I take a deep breath before getting out of the car when the valet opens my door. When my boots hit the pavement, I stand straight, put my shoulders back, and wish I could do a power pose like I do before we go out to perform a set.
However, since I’m not sure that’s the protocol for when your life is about to become a poorly scripted romcom—without romance, no less—I wait, poseless, for Josh to walk around and join me.
He places his hand at the small of my back to urge me forward, his touch gentle, and once we’re inside the country club, his hand slips down to mine, wrapping around it like we’d “practiced” in the car, palms clasped but no interlaced fingers. I can’t explain it, but interlaced fingers feels too intimate.
In Pi Phi, the first Sunday of every month was movie night, where we worked through all the old eighties and nineties romcoms. One of the worst wasPretty Woman.Julia Roberts plays a prostitute who gets a fairy tale ending after a rich guy hires her to be his escort at some fancy stuff for a week. She wouldn’t kiss her “Johns” on the mouth because it was “too intimate.”
The less I think about that movie the better, but I’m feeling icky similarities here. Why couldn’t I be livingSome Kind of Wonderfulinstead? I’d be the best friend/drummer sidekick. Much better.
But no, I’m definitely Julia Roberts as we enter the dining room and Josh guides me over to his parents. The men at the table stand to shake my hand as he introduces me as his girlfriend, Samantha. I clench my teeth behind my smile. Of course he has to use my full, formal name instead of the unpretentious “Sami.” Bryce did that too when he introduced me to his parents.
It’s obvious which man is Josh’s dad. They have the same jawline and build, although he gets his dark blonde hair from his mother. She nods in greeting and gives me a gracious smile. Presley nods too, but her smile is stiff. I shake Mr. Reilly’s hand—he looks rougher around the edges than Mr. Brower does, his skin more callused, his hair cut more for function than fashion. But both men wear expensive-looking suits and carry themselves with the kind of confidence even money can’t buy; only power can.
