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“I don’t know.” Her mood sobers, and I don’t know why. “Again?” she asks, perking up a bit.
“Um, yeah! I haven’t gotten to ask a question.”
“And you might not.” She giggles, bringing her fist to her palm.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three,” I say this time.
She shoots rock, and I shoot paper.
Her eyes widen. “Are you hustling me?”
“I told you I can win.”
She picks up my hand and places it over her fist. I really like this “show how you lose” thing she does.
I pretend to examine her as though I’m trying to think of the worst question to ask her. I could nail her for the mom thing, but that seems unfair. I could inquire more about the Coddle offer, but I really don’t want to talk about work tonight. There’s only one answer I really want, and since I’m Enzo Mancini and I don’t dodge bushes, I jump over them, I ask what I really want to know.
“Why were you disgusted after I kissed you on the plane?”
Her face falters and I wish I was anyone else right now. Someone who wouldn’t have had the balls to ask that question. Someone smarter who would’ve flirted their way into that question. Because it looks as though I won’t like the answer.
