Page 21 of Clinically Awkward

“I know it’s not a date. I’m just being polite.”

“You’ve never pulled out my chair at the clinic, and those are at least clean and predictable, unlike whatever creature is living under this seat.”

“That’s because the clinic chairs are on wheels and it would be weird. This is a different kind of weird.”

“This is also weird, but at least you’re consistent.”

“Noted. Should I push the chair back in now, or are we going to stand here and argue until the show starts?”

I took my seat, eyeing him as if trying to decode a foreign language. “You’re incredibly strange, you know that?”

“You say that like it’s new information,” he replied, settling across from me with a grin. “You’re my primary source for that diagnosis.”

The server appeared, and Quinton turned toward me, all business. “What do you want to drink?”

“I can order for myself,” I said, my tone edged with defiance. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if his need to orchestrate everything was just efficiency, or if he liked being in control—maybe a little too much.

He barely blinked. “I’m asking so I can order for both of us and save time.”

I looked at the server. “Vodka soda, please.”

“Make it two,” Quinton said, then pivoted. “Do you have any local beers?”

The server rattled off options.

“The IPA sounds promising,” Quinton said. “Viv, want to try it? We could split a pitcher. It’s award-winning, so efficiency and quality.”

“I just ordered a vodka soda, but sure—let’s maximize beverage potential.”

“Efficiency and quality, they’re practically synonyms,” he replied, a little too pleased with himself.

“If you say so, Quinton.”

“I tend to be efficient. It’s a character strength, I promise.”

“You mean ‘controlling,’ but sure—spin it however you want.”

“See? Efficient, controlling—it’s a common misconception.” He winked, as if that made everything clearer.

The server left, and suddenly I was alone with Quinton Wesley in a comedy club that smelled like a mid-life crisis on a Saturday night.

I was here because Colton had texted me “miss u babe” while he was out with his friends, and I was tired of being the girlfriend who waited around for a reminder she existed. I was here because Quinton had tossed out an invitation like a life raft, and I was desperate enough to grab it. I needed to laugh, or at least to do something that wasn’t scrolling through other people’s lives from my couch.

“You’re doing it again,” Quinton said, nudging my arm.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you look like you’re about to audit the fire exits.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how weird this is. We’re colleagues. We work together every day, and now here we are, pretending it’s normal to spend Saturday night together in a room decorated entirely in fake brick.”

“It could be normal,” Quinton said. “People need to laugh. And I figured you could use a break from work too. Plus, honestly, I didn’t want to come alone.” There was a flicker of something like vulnerability before he grinned again. “You’re good company, statistical anomaly or not.”

“We’re not friends.”