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“Oh,” I say, and I wave. “Cool.”
There’s an awkward pause where I glance at Matthew. He looks at me like he just ate a lemon, and, if I blinked, I would’ve missed the way he inches not closer, butawayfrom me, as if begging for distance between us.
Hurt barrels into me. I know this man isn’t my soulmate. I’m never going to see him again after today, but a kiss is harmless. It doesn’t mean anything, a quick peck to appease the guy behind the camera who’s in apparent control of our destiny.
“Fucking weird,” Matthew grumbles again, unaffected by the growing sound of boos around us. “Conformist pawns.”
I want the ground to swallow me whole.
I shake my head and try to convey to the cameraman there’s clearly not going to be any kissing happening in section 101, row A, but he doesn’t get the hint. The lens lingers on us and magnifies us for seventy thousand people to see.
To see and make fun of.
Sad violin music starts, and I’m close to catapulting myself onto the field with an imaginary medical event just to get away from here. If I clutch my chest and hold my breath, they’ll be forced to put me on a stretcher, right? Maybe I can slip someone a fifty-dollar bill to push me to the ground.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, and I grab Maggie’s hand. “What is going on?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers back. “Do you want me to kiss you? Hell, Aiden could. We can share him.”
“You’re a good friend,” I say, and my voice wobbles and cracks around the edges the longer I stare at my pathetic face. “This is embarrassing. It’s like those dreams you have where you show up to school with no clothes on and everyone makes fun of you.”
“They’re not making fun of you, Lace. They’re making fun of Matthew.”
I look at him again, with his set jaw and the wrinkles on his forehead. He’s firm in his anti-kiss cam stance, and I have to hand it to him: I’ve never seen someone so hellbent to rebel against a stadium game.
It feels like hours pass before the camera finally leaves us alone, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of seconds. It flashes through the crowd and finds another couple to show. This pair makes up for the enthusiasm we were lacking.
They use their tongues and hands, a generous display of public affection that turns so raunchy so quickly, whoever is in charge of the entertainment pulls the cord on the camera entirely, and a blank screen winks back at us.
“Thank god,” I mumble. I turn to face my date and I put my hands on my hips. “Uh, that was awkward.”
“I told you I think they’re dumb. Why would I kiss you in front of all these people?” he says. “Just because everyone else did?”
“I don’t know, Matthew, because it’s a joke? Because clearly the more you antagonize the person running this game, the more they’re going to poke fun at you? Because that wasmortifying? You could’ve kissed my cheek. Or my hand. Outright rejecting me on national television hurts.”
“I’m not rejecting you,” Matthew argues. He sighs and steps toward me. His hands cup my cheeks and his palms are ice cold on my skin. When he smiles, hope bubbles inside me. Maybe we can salvage this, a first date that’s not a total disaster. “I just don’t like to be told what to do. Especially by someone getting paid minimum wage to hold a camera. What a stupid fucking job. Imagine doing that for a living.”
“Oh.” I nod, as if that’s a perfectly logical explanation for humiliating me. Afuck youto the working class from the finance bro. “Okay.”
A fresh wave of boos work their way through the stadium. I pry his hands off my face and glance at the field, expecting to find a Titans player hurt, but the timeout is still going. The team is huddled in a tight circle with their heads bowed and their arms draped around each other’s shoulders.
Instead, I see us projected on the screen again, my mouth popped open and Matthew holding up his middle fingers. His hands are so red, I’m afraid he might be starting to get frostbite.
“Just kiss her, bro,” someone calls out.
“You suck,” a kid eight rows back yells.
“She deserves better,” a woman two sections over hollers.
“Dump his ass!” a girl shrieks, and there’s a round of applause at her drunken battle cry.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I need to use the restroom.”
I weave through the row of people, ignoring their apologies and the embarrassment of the last five minutes. I run up the stairs and out onto the stadium concourse. I fly past the snack stand that makes delicious cinnamon sugar pretzels. I dodge a beer cart and a tower of cotton candy. I don’t stop running until I lock myself in a bathroom stall and bury my face in my hands.
SIX
SHAWN
