Chapter 19
I’m not sure if there’s two date-worthy outfits in my closet. I’d worn the best one I had when I went on a date with a guy that I no longer think about. At least I try not to think about him. Somehow he’s always in my head.
TJ texted me half an hour ago asking if I still wanted to get dinner with him. I said yes, and he said cool, and I’m still waiting on more details. I stare in my closet while wearing my underwear and a bra, hoping that a perfect date night outfit will magically appear. Maybe it’ll fly off the hangers and slide onto my body, Cinderella style.
When nothing happens, I sit on my bed and text TJ again.
Me:Where are we going?
TJ:Lone Star Diner. Only the best food on the planet
Okay, that makes it easier. The diner is a small place in town and dressing up for it is definitely not required. I think it’s cool that he’s keeping our date low-key, although I can’t imagine a romantic walk along Main Street afterward would be as fun as a walk on the beach. Not that it matters, I remind myself. That date with Gavin was a sham.
I choose an outfit and don’t second guess myself as I get dressed. This is laid back and casual. It’s how normal teenagers date. I put my phone on silent and slip it in my purse and then go to wait for TJ on the porch. The last thing I want is for my grandpa to meet another boy. He may not be able to see, but he still remembers everything and I’d hate to answer why I’m suddenly going out with a different guy so soon after the first.
When I step outside, TJ is already here, parked on the side of the road in his silver SUV. I wave at him and walk to the car.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I say, climbing inside.
“I was just about to text you.” He puts the car in gear and starts driving. “You look hot.”
“Thanks,” I say, buckling my seatbelt. I wish first dates weren’t a thing, because they’re so awkward. Why can’t everyone just skip ahead to the third or fourth date where you know the person better?
As we drive to the diner, there’s not much to say, so the conversation is stilted. TJ’s radio fills the silence, and I’m so grateful that we’re only traveling a few blocks to the diner. It hits me now that I don’t really know this guy at all. We’ve had a few conversations in homeroom about nothing important, and I know he’s on the soccer team. That’s it.
I do feel a little guilty because I haven’t told my mom or Livi or anyone about this date. I just lied to Mom and said I had dinner plans with friends, and I didn’t tell Livi anything.
A part of me wonders if this is because of Gavin’s warning. Am I scared that he’s right? I screwed up big time by telling my mom and Livi about my date with Gavin because now they know it didn’t work out. I won’t make that mistake again. I’m keeping this date to myself until I know it will lead to something more.
The diner is busy for a Monday night, and I recognize a few people as we make our way inside, though I’m not close friends with anyone.
“Ladies first,” TJ says, motioning with his arm as we make our way to a booth in the back. I smile and sit down.
“I’m glad you came out with me,” TJ says. He grins at me from across the cozy two-seater booth. He’s cute, with dark eyes and light hair, and a somewhat stocky build. TJ is like most guys, which means he’s not taller than I am, but maybe an inch or so shorter.
“Thanks for asking me,” I say.
“Order anything you want. It’s on me.”
I grin. “How gentlemanly of you.”
TJ snorts. “That’s not exactly what I’m known for, but I’ll take it.”
When I give him a questioning look, he winks at me. I decide to let it go. He was probably joking, but he almost seemed like he was bragging at the idea of not being a gentleman. You’d think most guys would want to be called that.
Okay, I really thought getting Gavin out of my head would be easier once I went on a date. Instead, the reverse is proving true.
TJ and I both order cheeseburgers, which are the best thing the diner sells. He talks about soccer a lot and I pretend to care about the sport.
“Thank God we’re off drills every day,” he says, shoving a fry in his mouth.
“What are drills?” I ask because I haven’t heard that term about soccer before.
“Exercises,” he says, taking another fry. “Like, extreme exercises. We usually do them maybe fifteen minutes before practice, but Coach had us doing two hours of the shit before Gavin got caught.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Punishment,” he says. “Coach knew someone on the team messed up that shed thing and he was punishing us until someone confessed. Luckily, that bastard got caught or we’d still be doing drills.”
