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“Yeah, you’ve been weird today,” Nate adds from the adjacent machine. “Or I should say, more than usual.”
“Sorry, sorry. I don’t know where my mind is.”
On a Latina who makes the air crackle with electricity, that’s where.
“Go sit.” Conor frowns up at me before shifting his attention. “Garcia, be my spotter.”
I’m not above admitting my wrongs, so I do as I’m told and sit for a moment.
This isn’t good. I’m supposed to be married to hockey.
As if my body has a mind of its own, I pull my cell phone from the pocket of my joggers and click the iMessage app. She’s at the very top.
“Don’t do this, Max,” I tell myself. But I click on her texts anyway.
The thing is… it’s my birthday this Thursday. And the one gift I want is her company. The problem is we’re not dating. We said we’d be friends, and that’s what we are now. And Mom basically commanded I show up at the restaurant because she’s making tiramisu for me. Dismissing tiramisu would get me disowned and excommunicated. Bringing Tinker Bell over—especially since we’re not freaking dating—would make absolutely zero sense.
And yet my fingers start to type.
Me
Are you busy this...
I delete that. If she says she’s busy this Thursday, I’m going to look really pitiful saying oh, okay and going off to nurse my broken heart.
Like in hockey, I should be direct. In your face. Decisive.
Me
It’s my birthday this Thursday. Wanna hang?
If I could cringe any harder, I’d turn into a pebble. I delete that second part.
Wanna hang? Can I be any less cool?
Me
It’s my birthday this Thursday and…
“What?”
I startle at the sudden question.
Nate and Conor are sitting on either side of me. Somehow. Without me noticing them.
“Who’s Sparks?” Nate motions at my phone with his chin.
“Dude, it’s your birthday?” Conor’s eyes are wide. “This calls for a huge party.”
“Wait, I—” I mean to say I’m making plans already, but then I look down at my phone and…
Great, I hit Send on the incomplete text by accident.
“My roommate is the little brother of that guy who threw the house party we went to at the beginning of the semester,” Nate says, already jumping for his phone. “I’m sure those guys won’t say no to arranging something.”
“No, I—” The expectant looks they give me tell me that this isn’t about me. This is about them having a reason to get drunk. “Fine, just make it Friday after the game. I have to go home on Thursday.”
I congratulate myself on my quick thinking there. While they start making preparations right in front of me, I check my phone again and find that Tinker Bell sent me a single question mark. It could mean and? As in, she doesn’t see how that should pertain to her. Or it could mean I should finish the damn sentence.
