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“It’s fucking hilarious is what it is. We passed a couple of kids after practice the other day eating ice cream, and I thought he was going to cry.”
“Jace Taggart!” She flings a sugar packet at me, but I block it with my right arm. “That’s terrible.”
“Oh, come on.” I hold up my hands. “He’s hardly even at our apartment half the time. I’m sure he’s binging when we’re not around.”
“You’re the worst,” she says with a chuckle. But for some reason, coming from her, it sounds like the best.
“So, tell me,” I start. “We’ve been here for about three weeks now, and you used to spend a lot of time at home in high school. Are you homesick yet?”
Brynn pauses, taking her time as if she’s really thinking about the answer, and I like that about her, that she truly considers how she feels instead of just giving me a generic response. “I’m not, which is surprising. I actually thought I would be because I’m so close to my family, but . . .” She shakes her head, and I wonder if she’s trying to process what she’s feeling. “I don’t know. I think I just really needed this, you know? The change of pace. The independence. I really wanted a fresh start, and despite the road bumps so far, that’s exactly what I’m getting. I’m making friends and I’m putting myself out there. I’m trying to date, even if it’s not going as well as I had hoped. I signed up for a volunteer position with kids . . .”
She trails off for a moment, bowing her head to poke some of her food around with a fork and I can tell she’s not finished.
“Back in high school, it felt like I was just trying to get through, to pass the time, but here, I’m making choices for myself. For the first time in a really long time, I feel like I’m actuallyliving.” Sheoffers me a shy smile. “Does that even make sense? Or does it sound stupid?”
I shake my head because she’s the farthest thing from stupid. “No. It sounds pretty damn smart, actually. Like you’re creating your own happiness.”
Her smile spreads until it reaches her eyes, and it feels like a reward. “I like that,” she says. “Creating my own happiness.” She bites her lip, and my eyes follow the movement; it makes me want a taste.
I swallow, shifting my attention back to my plate.
The rest of dinner passes quickly. We talk a lot about her family and a little bit about what we want to do when we return home before fall semester. I discuss football and my hopes for the season while she fills me in on the volunteer position she took at Helping Hands.
By the time we’ve exhausted our stay at the table and can no longer stall, I’m sorry to see the night end. Our waitress stops by with the bill, sitting it on the edge of the table where I slap a hand on it, dragging it toward me before Brynn can get to it first.
“Jace, you are not paying.”
I glance up from my wallet. “I got it.”
She reaches across the table and tries to pluck the slip of paper from my hands, but I hold it just out of reach.
She huffs and grits her teeth. “We had a deal, remember? I lost the race.”
I tsk and wave my finger. “I was just joking. I didn’t actually expect you to buy me dinner, and if you think there’s a world in which I take a girl to dinner, whether it’s a date, a friend, a roommate, or otherwise, and I allow her to cover the bill or even go Dutch, you're crazy.”
“This is the twenty-first century.” She rolls her eyes and waves a little leather pouch attached to her key ring. “Look, I have my own wallet and everything.”
“Cute. What do you carry in that thing? Monopoly money?” I flag the waitress down and hand her my card as Brynn protests.
“Jace, you can't pay. It makes it seem like a . . .”
She pauses, and my smile grows wicked. "A what?"
Her cheeks flush crimson as she opens and closes her mouth like a guppy, the words lodged in her throat. I've seen Brynn Nichols in a lot of different emotional states over the years, but flustered is a rare occurrence. I think it's my favorite.
“ . . . a date,” she finally finishes.
I put a hand on my chest and suck in a dramatic breath. “Brynn Nichols, first you ask me to join you for dinner, and then you try to pay. Is that what this is? Why didn’t you just say so?”
She chucks her straw at my face. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t even wear my date shoes.”
She scoffs. “You havedateshoes?”
“Of course I have date shoes,” I say, making up shit as I go. “You don't? No wonder you have no game.”
Her lips twitch, eyes glittering with humor as she asks, “So, tell me. Were you wearing your date shoes the other night when you brought that girl back to the apartment? What was her name . . . Teresa?”
