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I won’t tell Mack about the near-fight because I don’t think Owen would want her to know. He’s never said so, but I think he cares a lot about what his family thinks of him, and after years of letting them down, I know he’s trying to do better. He is doing better.
But Mack still doesn’t see it. She just stares at us.
“We’re having an eat-off,” I say.
Her face changes.
“Without me? Why didn’t you just say so?” Mack scoots into the booth next to me.
Our weekly ritual of overeating at DeLucca’s had gotten interrupted last time due to the unfortunate Lindsay-sighting, so we’re overdue for what we call paralisi della pasta.
Roughly translated, it means “pasta coma.”
“You guys are not going to believe the flight I just had.” Mack nabs the mozzarella stick out of my hand and takes a bite. She does this much more gracefully than I did. There’s no cheese hanging out of her mouth.
My eyes drift over to Owen’s as I half-listen to Mack’s story. He should be looking at her—she is the one talking. But he’s not. He’s looking at me.
Something silent passes between us, and I realize my gratitude for Mack’s interruption is short-lived. How would this night have gone if she wasn’t here? I love my best friend, but her timing is sort of terrible.
Before long, Jace is also at our table, sitting next to Owen and flirting with Mack. Owen and I are both quiet, though I’m guessing not for the same reason. Maybe Owen is thinking about what that guy said to him.
Meanwhile, I’m just thinking about Owen.
“Oh! Emmy, I forgot to tell you. Chad Rober was asking about you.” Mack says this last part in a sing-songy tone, like it’s an exciting new development.
When I don’t react accordingly, she nudges my arm.
“Did you hear me?” she asks. “You remember him, right?”
Chad Rober. . .Chad Rober. . .
“Wasn’t he the one who got in trouble for listing the principal’s house for sale on Craigslist for the senior prank?”
“Yep. And you’ll never guess, he’s a high school English teacher now.” She pumps her eyebrows. “And he asked about you.”
“Ah,” I say absently. Am I supposed to care?
She frowns. “Oh, I know what this is.” She pops a bite in her mouth and looks across the table. “This is the E.S.M.”
I frown. “Oh, stop it.”
Owen looks at me, confused. “The E.S.M. . .?”
I roll my eyes. “The ‘Emaline Smart Meter.’”
Mack talks mid-bite. “That’s it. That’s what’s happening. It’s the meter.”
“Mack, there’s no meter.”
Both guys look confused, so I try to explain.
“She thinks that I hold every guy to some ridiculous standard. They never measure up because of the—” both Mack and I hold our hands up as measuring sticks and say simultaneously “—Emaline Smart Meter.”
“There’s no meter!” I take a bite.
“There is. You reject every guy who shows any interest because you’re holding out for someone as hopelessly romantic as you.”
My stomach springboards into my throat, and I almost choke on my meatball.
