Page 78 of Gave Proof Through the Night

And then some?

“You could sit with the Wags, so you don’t have to be alone,” he offers, steering me toward the exit with a hand at the small of my back.

“What on earth is a Wag?”

“Wives and girlfriends of the players.”

I snort. “I am neither of those things.”

“It’s early days.” He says it breezily, as if I wouldn’t notice. “In the meantime, I could introduce you to some of the women.”

“Are you talking about those ladies wearing the bedazzled jackets like they’re about to break into ‘Summer Nights’ at the lunch table?”

“You could be Sandy.”

“I’m more of a Rizzo.”

“I can see that.”

“Besides.” I tug my beer-soaked collar away from my neck. “I’ve always liked the T-Birds jackets better. You couldn’t pay me to wear one of those glittery things.”

“Really? After that whole Build-A-Bear ensemble?”

“Hey. You said I looked like an Arnold Palmer girl.”

“Robert Palmer…”

“Robert Palmer girl.”

He laughs, low, and bumps my shoulder with his. “I’m just teasing. I don’t want to push you into joining a sparkly girl gang if you don’t want to.”

“Good. Because I’m a terrible singer.”

“You’re my leading lady.” He says it so simply it nearly knocks the wind out of me. “We don’t have to put a label on this yet. I could just introduce you as my… my…”

“My Sharona?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“How about lover?” I say, testing the way it feels. “How do you say ‘lover’ in Spanish?”

“Amante.”

“Ohh, I like that. Amaaaannnte.” I draw it out, telenovela-announcer style, dramatic enough to earn its own theme music.

He laughs, but he’s already shaking his head. “No. You can’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“That’s not what this is. That implies a fling.” His voice drops half a register, serious under the joke. “And I don’t do flings.”

I pout.

“How about we figure it out over dinner?” he says. “I’m starved, and there’s a Mexican place I want to try so I can silently judge their salsa.”

“Why would you want to silently judge their salsa?”

“Because I’m Mexican, dear. That’s my duty.”