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"That's fine." She spoke in the cool, polite voice she'd been using all evening, as if he were her boss, not her friend.
The tiny rings on her fingers glimmered from the floodlights that had been turned on for intermission. He watched anxiously as she set the food between them and unwrapped her hot dog. He'd put mustard on it because that was how he liked his hot dogs, but the truth was, he didn't have any idea whether she liked mustard. They'd eaten a couple of thousand lunches together over the past eight years, but he couldn't seem to remember what she'd eaten at any of them, except he thought he recalled some salads.
"They didn't have any salad."
She regarded him quizzically. "Of course they didn't."
He felt like an idiot. "I wasn't sure whether you'd rather have regular mustard or spicy brown." He waited. "They had both kinds."
"This is fine."
"Maybe you like ketchup better?"
"It doesn't matter."
"And relish. Did you want relish?" He set his own hot dog down. "I can go back and get some."
"That's not necessary."
"Really? Because I don't mind." He had the door half open when she stopped him.
"Ethan, I hate hot dogs!"
"Oh." He closed the door and sank back into the seat, feeling foolish and depressed. On the drive-in screen, a clock, accompanied by marching sodas, ticked away the intermission time. He felt as if it were marking off the minutes of his life.
"I love chocolate-chip cookies, though."
He shook his head. "I've proved everything you threw at me the night at the Mountaineer, haven't I? I don't know anything about you."
"You know that I don't like hot dogs," she said gently.
She could have been bitchy, but she was being nice. It was one of so many good things about her. Why had it taken him so long to notice? He'd gone through most of his life barely thinking about Kristy Brown, and now he couldn't think about anybody else.
She wrapped her hot dog back up, returned it to the bag, and picked up a chocolate-chip cookie. Before she took a bite, she opened a paper napkin and spread it over the lap of her jeans. The jeans, along with her plain white blouse, had disappointed him. He supposed she'd decided to save her short skirts and tight tops for Mike Reedy.
He pulled the paper off his straw and punched it through the lid covering his large Cherry Coke. "So, I hear you and Mike are seeing each other." He tried to sound casual, as if the topic were of no more interest to him than last week's weather.
"He's a very nice person."
"Yeah, I guess." Tendrils of silky dark hair curled around her cheeks. He wanted to brush them back, and, for a moment, he imagined doing it with his lips.
She gazed at him. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Say it." She sounded impatient. "I know when you have something on your mind."
"It's just—Mike's a great guy, don't get me wrong, but—In high school, he was a little—I don't know. Maybe a little wild or something." For someone who was a pro at public speaking, he was making a mess of this.
"Wild? Mike?"
"Not now." He was starting to sweat. "No, it's like I said, he's a great guy, but he can be a little… spacey. You know. Distractible."
"So?"
"So." His throat was dry, and he took a sip of Cherry Coke. "I just thought you should know."
"I should know that he's distractible?"
