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“A date,” he said.
“Adate?”
“Yeah. No, that’s stupid. Sorry. That’s…stupid. Sorry.”
“No, no, no. Tell me what you mean.”
He shrugged. “I just…kind of want, like, the perfect guy to show up. And take me on a date.”
I burned with jealousy toward this imaginary perfect guy, then shoved that feeling into the mental box marked For My Future Therapist. “A date,” I repeated.
“I haven’t ever had anythingromantichappen to me, really.”
“Oh, come on. What about when I took you to Taco Bell for your seventeenth birthday?”
He nodded. “That was very romantic.”
“Especially the part where Linda drove us.”
“And paid,” Cass agreed. He spread his arms along the back of the sofa, and it made me really, really want to stick my hand under his sweater and feel his chest.
“So what would the perfect date be?”
He stared at me. “I like your mouth.”
“Thanks.”
He turned his gaze to the Christmas tree. “A fancy restaurant.”
“Good luck finding one here.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Mon Ami. It’s got such nice lights.”
I burst out laughing.“That’syour idea of fancy?”
“Okay, Mr. Big City. It’s fancy for Christmas Valley. You need reservations.”
“I went once. It’s not that good. It’s Olive Garden food at Guy Savoy prices.”
“I still want to go.” He looked genuinelywistful.
“Why haven’t you ever been?”
“No one to go with.”
“You could go with Linda.”
“I don’t want to go with mymom.” He shifted, and his sweater rode up a little, and I suddenly understood why dudes in the 1800s basically burst into flame if they saw a lady’s ankle. “I want to go with someone special.”
“Linda’s special.”
“I know.”
“Okay, so Mon Ami, and then what?”
“You’ll laugh at me.”
“I already laughed at you.”
