Dad sighs, closes his menu, and smiles at me. “All right, but I want you to double, just this one time.”
I grimace and then look at Riley. “You want to crash my date?”
A slow smile builds on her face, and then she lowers her eyes and plays with the edge of her napkin. “I’d love to…but I’m just not sure who I could ask with such short notice.”
Her eyes flick to Harrison, who’s still pretending to ignore the conversation.
I hold my breath, wondering how this will play out, not sure how I want it to.
As if he can sense her attention, Harrison glances at Riley. She looks at him shyly—a patented Riley move. I almost roll my eyes.
Immediately, Harrison’s gaze slides to mine. He holds it for several moments, his expression cryptic, before he looks back at Riley and gives her a friendly smile. “I don’t have plans tomorrow. I could take you if you’d like.”
Riley’s whole face brightens at the idea—as if it weren’t hers in the first place. “Would you?”
He nods.
We discuss it further, and as Harrison is ordering, Riley shoots me a joyful look of triumph. I smile back, but the expression only makes my cheeks hurt.
She doesn’t seem to notice my lack of zeal, and she orders her dinner with bright eyes and pink-flushed cheeks.
Harrison’s coming on my date with Grant. Won’t this be fun?
Dinner comes, but I’m not as hungry as I was a few minutes ago. I nibble on my chicken and push my coleslaw back and forth. I end up wrapping most of it up in a box.
Riley heads home as soon as we get back. Before I go up to my room to call Grant, I toss my box of leftovers on the counter.
On my way up, Grant answers on the second ring.
“My parents said yes on one condition,” I say.
“What’s that?” His voice is wary.
I sit on my bed and tuck my legs under me. “They want us to double with Riley.”
“That’s not so bad,” he says, obviously relieved.
That’s what he thinks.
We decide on a restaurant and then agree on a time for him to pick me up. When we end the call, I sit with the phone in my lap and stare at the abstract pink and gold canvas on the wall.
I should pick out what I’m going to wear tomorrow…and the accessories to go with it…and decide how I’m going to do my hair. It’s only eight-thirty. I have plenty of time to do my nails before bed, too.
My eyes wander to a half-finished paperback on my dresser, and I find myself changing into pajamas and crawling into bed, book in hand.
I can do all that tomorrow.
My eyelids grow heavy. The book is about to smack me in the nose when Dad knocks on the door frame and sticks his head in the room. “Your mom made chocolate chip cookies. There are some cooling downstairs if you want one.”
The mention of chocolate makes my stomach growl. I toss my book aside and descend the stairs. The brown sugar and vanilla smell hits me as soon as I’m in the hall.
Just as I expected, Harrison’s already in the kitchen, helping himself to my mother’s cookies. Spatula in hand, she smiles at me when I enter.
“I picked up a new jug of milk this morning,” Mom says.
Noticing my forgotten leftovers sitting on the counter, I slide the box in the fridge while I search for the milk.
“I don’t know if you should save that.” Harrison narrows his eyes at the box. “It’s been sitting there for awhile.”
I roll my eyes and grab the milk. “Yeah, okay.”
Harrison, uncharacteristically not wanting to argue, only shrugs and helps himself to another cookie.
“Where are we going tomorrow?” he asks.
With half a cookie shoved in my mouth, I stare back at him in question.
“For our date?” he supplies.
And my stomach lurches. The cookie suddenly seems dry and crumbly, and I have to gulp down a swig of milk to help it go down.
He doesn’t mean our date. He means the date. The date we’re going on together but separately. The date that we’re mutually going on with other people.
Shut up, Lauren.
Even my brain is against me.
Not quite meeting his eyes, I mutter, “Tuscany’s.”
“What time should I pick up Riley?”
Why are these cookies so dry?
After I chew about a billion times, I finally swallow. “Five thirty. We’ll meet at the restaurant at fifteen till six.”
“Early date.”
“Busy restaurant,” I retort, and then I thank Mom for the cookies and escape upstairs.
A text comes through on my phone. Sighing, I set my book aside and crawl across the covers to retrieve the phone off the floor, where it fell next to the wall charger.
Does Harrison like blue or red better???
I glare at my phone as I type an answer back to Riley. I don’t know.
Is the red dress with my new heels too much for a first date?
Pursing my lips to the side, I mentally scan her closet, trying to remember which red dress she’s talking about. It’s the short one, the one with the bordering-on-too-low front.
Yes, I type back.
Two seconds later, my phone rings.
“What should I wear then?” Riley asks.
A visual of Riley in a nun’s habit pops in my head.
“Dressy casual,” I answer.
Riley somehow growls and laughs at the same time. “You are no help.”
I shrug even though she can’t see me.
“What are you wearing?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I wrap the charger cord around my finger, let it drop, and then do it again. “I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
“You’re hopeless,” she answers.
I grunt a reply. Riley goes on about her outfit choices for a good twenty minutes before she finally decides. Before she can get started on what she’ll do with her hair, I say goodbye.
Exhausted from the conversation, I switch off the lights and crawl into bed.
As I stare at my ceiling, I will myself to be excited about tomorrow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
December 12th
Grant is supposed to pick me up in twelve minutes, and I’m starving. It’s the kind of nervous hunger that makes me worry I’ll eat everything in sight as soon as we get to the restaurant. And while you want to be a date who eats, you don’t want to be the girl who devours two baskets of bread sticks before the salad course shows up.
Mom and Dad are at the gym, being healthy, and I’m searching for leftover chocolate chip cookies. I close the pantry, irritated that I can’t find them.
I bet Mom gave the rest to Harrison.
Crossing my arms, I stare out the kitchen windows at the guest house. I should march over and demand he give them back. But then I’d walk in on him getting ready for his date with Riley.
My stomach growls at the thought. Frowning, I turn to the fridge.
And there, sitting on the middle shelf, is my box of leftovers. Grateful, I take it out, dig a fork from the drawer, and help myself to leftover coleslaw. It’s not as good as it was last night. The cabbage and carrots are kind of lifeless; the dressing has made everything a touch soggy.
Still, food is food. I take several more bites before I decide that it’s just not worth it, and then I dump it in the trash.
Just as I’m looking in the cupboard again, Harrison walks through the French doors.
With my back to him, I demand, “Did you steal the cookies?”
He steps up right behind me—smelling absolutely amazing, I might add—and reaches over my shoulder to the top shelf. “They’re up here.”
Turning around, I snatch them from him. “Who put them up there?”
Harrison leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms and watching me open the bag. “Bit nervous?”
I pull several cookies from the bag and then hand it to him. “No.”
He watches as I take
a large bite and then fidget with my heel.
“Could have fooled me,” he says.
“Don’t you think you’re a little old for Riley?” I blurt out.
Completely taken off guard, Harrison raises his eyebrows in surprise. “How old is she?”
I slide my feet out of my high heels and peer at them so I don’t have to look at him. “Seventeen.”
He studies me. I can feel it. “I’m only twenty, Lauren.”
I shrug.
Finally, quietly teasing, he says, “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t.”
I bark out a laugh. “What? No.” My throat feels scratchy, and I attempt to clear it. “I don’t care either way. I just, you know, don’t want you leading Riley on…”
“Hmmm.” He finishes his cookie.
Why does he have to stand there, looking at me like that? His hair is perfect, as always. His jeans are dark and new, and he’s wearing a button-up shirt that he somehow makes look casual and…well, hot…all at the same time.
Still watching me, he crosses his arms and abruptly changes the subject. “Are you wearing that?”
Startled, I look down at my skirt, which is short but far from scandalous. I raise an eyebrow, questioning him.
He shrugs. “You’ll freeze. That’s all.”
But if I wear anything else, I’ll look like a dowdy schoolmarm next to Riley.
I look pointedly at the stove clock. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll be late picking Riley up.”
Feeling self-conscious, I step back into my heels, which are a very tall, tasteful, and glittery pair of gold stilettos. They’re rather fabulous, actually.
Harrison’s eyes glide from the heels and quickly sweep over my legs. He looks away as if embarrassed and then glances at his watch. “I’ll see you at the restaurant.”
“Okay.”
He stands there for a moment longer, watching me, before he leaves. I exhale slowly as the door closes behind him. Ten minutes later, Grant rings the doorbell.
Somehow Harrison and Riley beat us to the restaurant. Harrison, being all grown up and smart, thought to make reservations, and the host leads us to the back where the couple is already sitting.
And I was right. Riley looks fantastic. She’s in skinny jeans and her sky-high black suede boots. Her hair is down and curled, and her eyes are just the right amount of smoky.
Together, she and Harrison look amazing. And cozy. So very cozy.
Harrison stands as we get to the table, and he and Grant do the obligatory reintroduction thing. Super awkward.
As they talk about some sports team, Riley leans forward. “Love the shoes. Did you glitter them?”
“They came this way,” I admit.
That’s one lovely thing about the Christmas season and its plethora of holiday parties—there’s glitter galore.
Grant and I order our drinks, and as we’re waiting for them, Riley very casually sets her hand on Harrison’s wrist. I zero in on it, and my stomach lurches.
Next to me, Grant gets a text. He frowns at his phone, types something back, and then tucks it away.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
He gives me a smile, but something tells me it’s not completely genuine.
“It’s nothing to worry about right now,” he answers.
I nod, unsure what to say. Luckily, the waiter brings our drinks. I take a sip of my soda, and my stomach lurches again, this time not from the adoring look in Riley’s eyes.
Something in my expression must tip Riley off because she asks, “Lauren? Are you all right?”
My stomach churns again. “I’m fine.”
I just need something real. I had too many cookies, too much sugar. Feeling faintly nauseous, I slide my drink away. As I do, it catches on a napkin, and the whole soda goes tipping over, spilling everywhere.
But mostly on me.
The waiter hurries away to retrieve something to clean it up, but in the meantime, we attempt to soak it up with napkins. My stomach knots from extreme embarrassment.
When the waiter returns, he finishes cleaning up the mess. He tosses the rag to a busboy and turns back to us like nothing happened. Sliding a pad from the pocket of his half-apron, he asks, “Are we all ready to order?”
Grant’s phone chimes again. He reads the text, and his eyebrows knit. He taps something back and sets the phone aside just as the waiter gets to him.
“Oh,” he says, distracted. “I’ll have spaghetti with sausage.”
Just the thought of it makes me start to sweat. Suddenly the smell of the garlic and onions that permeate the air make me feel gaggy.
“And you?” the waiter asks me with a big smile.
“I’ll have…I’ll have…” Again my stomach churns.
Suddenly, I’m hit with an urgent wave of nausea.
Oh, no.
I push Grant, urgently coaxing him to slide out of the booth.
“Excuse me,” I beg.
Grant looks at me, stunned, but he moves aside.
As I leap out of the bench, I call back to Riley, “Order for me.”
And then I walk to the restrooms as quickly as a person can in heels. I get a few funny looks, but I don’t care at this point.
Hurry, hurry.
I burst through the door, and, to my horror, there’s a line. Several women and one small girl blink at me.
“I’m going to be sick,” I squeak out.
A stall opens, and the group collectively waves me in, everyone stepping back just in case whatever I have is contagious.
About ten minutes later, Riley comes looking for me. When she walks into the restroom, she hesitantly calls out my name.
“I’m in here.” It comes out as a half croak, half sob.
“Oh, honey,” Riley says as she pushes the door open.
Tears run down my face, not only because I’m so embarrassed, but because I feel so incredibly awful. I’m going to die right here, next to a toilet in one of the nicest restaurants in town.
I gulp back another sob. “Can you tell Grant I’m sorry?”
As only a friend of eight years will do, Riley squats next to me in the tiny bathroom stall and rubs my shoulder. Very quietly, she says, “He had to leave.”
He left. I’m the worst date ever. Another bout of sickness takes me, and Riley stays with me, making awkward sympathy noises.
Since we’re not drinkers, this is definitely a new experience for us both.
“It’s not you,” she insists after a few minutes. “There was some family emergency that came up. He was really sorry. Harrison said he’ll drive you home.”
I hiccup and then start to cry again. “I’ve ruined your date.”
And despite the fact that I’ve been battling jealousy the whole evening, I do feel really sorry.
“Shhh,” Riley says as she helps me to my feet. “None of that.”
We step out of the stall, and a woman about our mother’s age watches me from the corner of her eye. She frowns, and Riley reads the expression just as I do.
“She’s not pregnant,” she assures the woman, who looks taken aback to have been addressed.
I gulp back a sob. How humiliating.
Riley soaks a long section of brown paper towel with cool water, and then she blots my forehead. “I texted my dad. He’s going to pick me up so Harrison can take you right home.”
“Oh, Riley,” I groan.
“It’s not a big deal. I don’t think he really likes me anyway.”
I’m such a cow. Here she is, being so nice, and all I’ve thought about all day is how awful she is for wanting to go out with Harrison.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper.
She shrugs. “It’s all right. He’s really nice anyway.”
I’m about to say something noble and profound, but, instead, I have to run back to the empty stall.
Ten awful minutes later, Harrison leads me to his truck.
Riley slides into her dad’s car, looking at me with worried ey
es. “Call me in the morning.”
I nod, which is about all I can do at this point.
I’m trying to walk gracefully down the front steps, but all I want to do is hunch over and lie on the concrete. The cold air helps, but it’s not enough.
Harrison wraps his arm around me and guides me down.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him, repeating the same apologies as I gave Riley. And then I admit, “I think it was the coleslaw. You were right.”
“Probably.” He flashes me a sympathetic grin. “But don’t worry about it now.”
He’s warm, and I let myself sink against him. Unfortunately, my stomach rolls again.
“Over there, over there,” Harrison says, immediately hurrying me to a trash can near the entrance.
Once I’ve finished, tears sting my eyes again.
Worst night of my life. Ever.
“I want to die,” I whine.
Harrison rubs my shoulders and leads me back to his truck. We stand outside the door, and he peers at me. “How are you doing?”
Unable to help it, tears spring from my eyes as I cry, “I don’t want to throw up in your truck.”
I’m not sure what he finds funny, but suddenly he chokes back a laugh and pulls me into a careful hug. “The seats are washable.”
But that only makes me sob again.
Then, like a knight from a twisted fairy tale, Harrison picks me up and deposits me in the seat. He carefully shuts the door, and I lean against it, relishing the feel of the cool glass window against my cheek.
Somehow, I make it back to the house without another incident. There can’t be anything left in my stomach at this point.
The house is dark, and my parent’s car is missing from the front.
“Your dad said they were going out,” Harrison explains as he unlocks the door for me.
Feeling like death, I blink in the darkness. All I want is my mom, but it would be really rotten to call them and ruin their night.
Harrison flicks on lights as we go through the house. “Go change,” he instructs.
Gladly, I slink up the stairs. Just as I’m pulling on a soft pair of yoga pants, Harrison knocks on my bedroom door.
“Are you decent?” he asks and pushes the door open when I say I am. “I have the couch ready for you.”
“The couch?”
He gives me a half smile. “Of course the couch. Everyone knows you sleep on it when you’re sick.”
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