I nod.
“So, I’m sleeping where?”
I wince. “The couch.”
“Okay.”
He gets up, crosses to my desk, and picks up the journal I just bought. He looks for a pen, and then he opens the top drawer.
“Not––”
His eyes are already looking at theMissingposters I saved. All six of them laminated and stacked in the drawer. The top onehas the word N-O spelled across his face with Sharpie. I swallow, watching his face.
“Nice place to hide these, Linwood. I need a pen.”
I point to the drawer he’s in. He shuffles around and pulls one out, and I have to bite back my embarrassment. He didn’t seem surprised to see his posters, nor did he make a joke out of it or ask why I wrote that across his face.
He opens the journal to the first page and asks, “Am I allowed to use this?”
I nod. “Sure.”
He sits down and flips to the first page. He starts writing at the top of the page.
Linwood-Ermington Dating Rules.
He puts the phone down and says, “We need rules.”
I look at the journal.
“For tomorrow. The dinner. The whole weekend. All of it.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll start.” He clicks the pen and writes, narrating as he goes. “Rule number one. Casual. We tell them nothing new — the story’s two weeks, after a Camden home game, coffee, I asked, you said yes. Simple. Simple holds.”
I nod, agreeing.
“Two. We don’t oversell. We don’t pretend to be in love. We’re new and figuring it out. People believe new before they believe sure.”
“Not in love. Got it.” Honestly, that’s a great rule. He’s pretty good at this, so I watch him for a moment. He concentrates on the list, thinking for a minute.
“Three. PDA. What do you say?”
“Definitely no kissing.”
“Not even on the cheek?”
I shake my head. “No lips allowed.”
“What about a hand on your lower back?”
I remember the feeling from Saturday. I tilt my head to think.
He says, “Okay, how about this? I ask before I touch you. You don’t have to ask before you touch me, because, frankly, I’ll be flattered.”
I turn red.
“Four––”
