Page 24 of Clinically Awkward

“You agreed to come!”

“Under duress!”

“You literally said yes!”

The comedian finished his set with a bit about online dating (“I’m on all the apps. Tinder. Bumble. Hinge. Farmers Only. I’m not a farmer, but I’m desperate.”), and by the time he left the stage, I was a mess. My face hurt. My stomach hurt. My eyes were watering, and I felt amazing. My laughter faded, replaced by a sudden tightness in my chest as I realized how different this felt. After months of feeling invisible with Colton, it was strange—almost unsettling—to have someone notice the little things. I wasn’t sure if I liked it or if it just scared me.

“Really good?” Quinton grinned. “Not adequately good?”

“Really good,” I confirmed. “Genuinely, actually, really good.”

“I’m writing this down. Vivian Darcy admitted something was really good. This is historic.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Too late. Already pushing.”

I grabbed another nacho and looked at Quinton across the table.

He was smiling. Not the polite smile he used at work. A real smile. Genuine. Unguarded.

And suddenly I was confused. Because this, right here, right now, was the first genuinely good time I’d had in months. Colton never took me anywhere. He never asked if I was comfortable. He never ordered local beer and nachos, and made sure I was having fun. He never looked at me the way Quinton was looking at me right now.

Like I mattered. Like my happiness mattered, and I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand why someone this charming, this considerate, this genuinely funny would swear off dating entirely.

What was the real story? What was I missing?

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

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you look like you’re trying to solve a complex mathematical equation.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“About why you’re so weird.”

He laughed. “I’m weird?”

“You’re very weird. You swear off dating, but you’re... this.” I gestured vaguely at him.

“This?”

“Charming. Considerate. Funny. You pulled out my chair, Quinton. You asked about my seating preference. You ordered local beer and made sure I was comfortable. That’s not the behavior of someone who’s sworn off dating.”

“Maybe I’m just a good friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

“We’ve been over this. We’re absolutely friends.”

“We’re colleagues.”

Quinton sighed. “Viv. We’re friends.”

I looked at him, really looked at him, and I didn’t know what to say. Because maybe we were friends. Maybe we’d been friends this whole time, and I just hadn’t noticed. Or maybe this was something else entirely. Something I didn’t have a name for yet. Something that confused me and intrigued me, and scared me a little bit. “Okay,” I said finally. “Maybe we’re friends.”