"Sure, Drew leaves the toilet seat up occasionally or uses the last frozen banana without offering it to me."
I hold my hands open. When her eye contact doesn't waver, and her tongue runs over her top lip suspiciously, I sigh. "But…"
She sits forward, ready to say whatever it is she's about to say with an eagerness that tells me she's been holding it back for a while. She looks at her hands in her lap, then locks eyes with me, parting her lips.
After searching my face, she slouches slightly. "He's good to you, right?"
I freeze, caught off guard by the question. "Yeah, sure."Good enough.
She nods, then lets out a playful laugh. "There haven't been any more dates where he ignores you and you end up sharing ice cream with a dog?"
A heavy heat washes over me that has less to do with her insinuation and more to do with the fact that I've been trying to put that run-in out of my mind. It was there before—an interaction with a stranger that seemed to stay with me, but it's been lingering even more since my and Liam's proper meeting two days ago.
"No," I say, laughing it off.
"Good." Brooke brings both her feet together, butterfly style. "What did he say about the interview?"
I mirror her pose and lean down until my muscles start to burn. "Oh, I didn't tell him yet."
She looks at me curiously, then pulls her collarbone-length hair out of the claw clip that's been holding it up, running her fingers through the sweat-locked roots. "Why?"
I shrug. "I don't know." She waits for me to continue, and I realize the only other thing I have to offer is the truth. "He didn't ask."
"Alright, ladies, another great class. We'll see you next week!"
Brooke's eyes dart to mine. "On Saturday," she emphasizes jokingly.
I force a laugh, dragging my mind back to the moment and away from where I went trying to interpret my realization.
Brooke slides her black puffy bag over her shoulder and throws her sweaty arms around my neck. "Ya know, I'm glad we've gotten so close recently."
"Me too," I say genuinely.
She tips her chin down. "Are you though?"
"Yeah." I laugh, sweeping the end of my ponytail off of my shoulder, still fighting myself on asking her to explain what she meant about Trevor. "I think I am."
My jaw ticks as I choke down a sip of the second beer in my flight. "Oh, God, no. Definitely not this one. It tastes like stale bread."
Trevor rolls his eyes and laughs. "It does not. You're so dramatic."
My brows shoot up as I lift the small glass and hold it out to him. "You try it and tell me that isn't week-old Wonderloaf."
He takes my cup and downs the last two inches of lager with a straight face. "Delicious."
"If you're into moldy carbs," I mumble, picking up the third glass. The first one was decent—a citrus cider I could force down if I had to. But I'm not holding out much hope for this hazy IPA.
"That's one of my favorites from here," Trev says as I smell the amber liquid. He takes a gulp of his twenty-four ounce Pilsner, waiting for my reaction.
I bring the glass to my lips, allowing half a sip to slide between them and immediately slam my lids shut. "Nope," I blurt, sticking out my tongue.
"Oh, stop."
"So bitter," I struggle to say, reaching for my water.
He chuckles. "That's the hops."
I shake my head, savoring the cold water as it washes away the taste. "No." I set the beer back in its slot on the wooden board in front of me. "That'sdisgusting."
