Page 66 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Cool,” he says, aiming for casual and overshooting by a mile. “Cool, that’s, yeah. Good.”

Smooth, I think. Very smooth, Zesty.

His eyes drift over the blazer, the tie knotted too tight at my throat, the hair scraped back hard enough to give me a headache.

“What’s with the outfit?”

I look down at myself. “Why? Do I look like a Build-A-Bear?”

He blinks. “What?”

“A Build-A-Bear. Zoe makes fun of me whenever I wear a suit.”

He’s quiet, and for a moment I think he’s going to confirm exactly what Zoe thinks. That I do, indeed, look like a Build-A-Bear in this suit. But then he laughs, head tipped back, and it does something glorious to his whole face.

“No,” he says, once he’s got it back under control, still grinning. “You don’t look like a Build-A-Bear.” He tilts his head, considering me with an expression that’s suddenly a lot less funny and a lot more like he’s actually looking. “Actually, with your hair like that, slicked all the way back? You look like one of those girls in that old music video. The one with the models playing instruments in matching outfits and bright red lipstick?”

I grimace. “Addicted to Love?”

He snaps, pointing at me. “Yeah. That one.”

I suppose I should take that as a compliment. For the record, I don’t think I look like those supermodels, but if this extremely hot guy wants to see me like that, I won’t complain.

“Maybe I should take up guitar,” I say.

“I could teach you.”

Now that is not what I expected to hear. “You play guitar?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like all hockey players play guitar, like it just comes with the territory.

There’s silence for a long moment. Comfortable, though, not the bad kind. We’re just staring at each other, and it’s almost like the rest of the world has fallen away. Then he blinks and clears his throat.

“We should exchange numbers,” he says, already pulling his phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. “Coordinate gala stuff. Just hold your phone up and tap mine.”

I pull my phone out. It flips open with a satisfying, ancient click. It has a single antenna.

He stares at it.

“Is that… a flip phone?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “It does the job.”

That is, until I don’t need it anymore. And then I’ll snap it in half and drop the pieces in two separate storm drains. He doesn’t need to know that part.

Something crosses his face. Pity. He thinks I’m broke. He thinks I’m a poor girl who can’t afford a phone that does anything but ring. And he is being so careful not to let that show on his face that it almost undoes me more than if he’d said it out loud.

“Here,” I say, and hold out my hand.

He hands his phone over without hesitation, and I type my number in manually and pass it back.

He looks down at the screen. At the contact I just made.

“Erica,” he reads out loud. Then his whole face crumples, and he brings a palm up and smacks it flat against his own forehead. “Your name is Erica.”

And then his eyes do something spectacular, somewhere between a wince and a full system reboot.

“Erica for short,” I say, watching him process it, staring at his phone. I let it sit, then add, “America for long.”