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This is a nightmare.
The kind that’s real. The kind that I’m watching with my eyes open.
Wideopen.
I think my eyes are the size of dinner plates ever since he arrived and kept staring andstaringat me. Even when several of the patrons flocked around him, asking for his autograph. He hardly even looked at the things they were thrusting at him to sign: a piece of paper, a napkin, the menu even. He thanked them, nodded at them, lifted his chin at them but kept his eyes onme.
And then Evan, my date, jumped up from his seat and rushed over to him to get a picture in.
Even thenhe didn’t move his eyes away.
And while all of that could still be chalked up to inconsequential, the fact that he still hasn’t looked away from me is a little hard to wave away now.
Mostly because he’s sitting at my table.
My table, yes.
That I was sharing with Evan.
BecauseEvan, after taking that picture with him, asked if he’d like to join us and to the surprise of all, especially his date Tara, he said yes. So now he’s sitting at the same table as me, right opposite to where I am, and the way he won’t look at anything else, even when he’s taking a sip of his water, is really hard to ignore.
Tara, for one, looks extremely pissed by it.
Her arched eyebrows are even more arched and her cheekbones stand out in stark relief because she’s pursing her lips at me.
I don’t know what to tell her.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know where to look.
I decide that the safe choice would be my date, so I look at him.
As he babbles on and on about soccer. About this goal Riot made last season, and got really famous for. So famous that even I know it, where he took a pass from another one of his teammates, back-flipped in the air to kick it and hit the net dead center. I think that was the winning goal as well. They kept playing it over and over through the entire season, and with my little brothers being soccer fanatics, Riot and his famous goal were the only topic of conversation in my house for several days.
As Evan talks, I try not to imagine it.
The goal, I mean.
I try not to imagine how freaking insane — and by that I meangood— Riot looked taking that shot. How every muscle in his body stood taut and hard as he flipped himself in the air; how his gorgeous mass of hair, his tanned muscles shone with sweat and sun as he landed back on the field on his two feet, all smoothly, without strain or any effort whatsoever.
How he could’ve been a dancer.
A freaking acrobat.
I didn’t know him then; I hadn’t started working for him yet, but I remember thinking if I ever met this guy in real life, I’d do what other girls do so easily and look good doing it: swoon.
Which I came very close to doing when I did see him that first time, on the day of my interview.
But anyway.
Dangerous train of thought.
Maybe I should think about something else, something like…
“So Evan,” he says abruptly.
By he, I mean the object of my obsession.
