Make that 0 for 3.
I read Ryan’s texts aloud, and Bridget says I’ll need to work strategically. That I can’t take the subtle route. “If you want Penn to see you differently, you need to act differently. Add some physicality to the way you two already talk to each other, and it’s flirting.”
I choke. “Excuse me?”
Penn and I cannot possibly be one step away from flirting.
Then again, Bridget knows better. Here, we’re both single and actively mingling, but in reality, she’s the only one who’s been on the apps, or agreed to blind dates with friends of friends. Meanwhile, I’ve never really dated. I’ve never even purposely tried to flirt.
Is that really what Penn and I have been doing?
“Trust me,” Bridget says. “Flirting is just teasing with eye contact.”
I picture his familiar gaze—what’s felt like an anchor back to reality—and gulp.
Bridget tugs the neck of her rose-colored sweater to reveal a little collarbone, then gives me The Eye over her shoulder. “See? It’s not necessarily how you look. It’s how you look at him. How you convey what you’re thinking.”
“What if I’m thinking:Get me the hell out of here?”
“Anger is passion. Close enough.”
“He won’t buy it,” I warn her. “We’re going from zero to sixty. From ‘I can’t stand you, but fine, you can live with me’ to ‘Oh, hey, let’s make out, shall we?’ ”
“Well, you’re no stranger to going from zero to sixty around here.”
I feign offense. “Are you slut-shaming MASH Me?”
Bridget laughs. “No, I’m calling her bold. She goes after what she wants. Aren’t you ever assertive in that other universe of yours?”
She says it with a wry grin, and I wonder whether any part of Bridget buys my world-hopping story. She’s game, like she always is, but she must secretly believe I’ve lost it.
“I’m only assertive when I know I’ll succeed,” I say. “When I’ve laid the foundation.”
“Technically, haven’t you and Penn been laying a foundation for, like, three decades?” I give her a look, so she clarifies, “Not a great foundation. But it exists.”
“Sure. Balancing on rotten beams. Made of sand.” I poke the air. “One little touch, andpoof, there it goes.” I’m kidding, but my stomach churns, because that’s how it’s felt.
Poof.There went my life.
Never has so much hinged on choosing the right tank top.
“Now you’re getting it,” Bridget cheers. “One little touch. That’s all you’ve got to do.” Something lavender dangles from her outstretched hand. “Because let’s be real: One touch can change everything.”
—
A zip ofadrenaline shivers up my spine when I hear the front door open at seven o’clock. Penn said he’d be home around dinnertime, so I’ve been sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his Instagram account, for more than an hour. Deep-diving into the comments and clicking on every profile. For context.
Which is why, when he arrives, there’s zero ease-in before I blurt it out: “Movie night?”
Penn stops a few feet away, craning his neck around. “Where are you?”
He can’t see me from where I’ve sunk into the denim couch, so I peek over the sofa’s tall back. My voice is a high-pitched squeak. “Hi!”
Penn’s wearing his gray Curly’s T-shirt and jeans, and he must’ve just pulled off a hat, his wavy hair sticking out like bedhead. His brow furrows. “Um. Hi?”
Bridget and I rehearsed what should happen next.The Move.
My outfit was chosen with peak Move compatibility in mind: dark purple leggings, a lavender tank top with a strategically tight fit, and a matching sweatshirt that dips past my shoulder. It shows off my tan and “extra neck,” which Bridget insists is the winning ticket.
