But it’s getting old.
Or maybe I am.
It’s just not as fun as it used to be. The other day I sort of joked around with Mel that I felt like staying in and binge-watching Game of Thrones sounded more exciting than getting into 1 OAK and she looked at me like I had two heads. But the truth is, I’m in this gray area where going out sucks and staying in sucks and I don’t know what the hell I want to do half the time, but I’m kind of okay with that because classes start next week and my priorities are about to shift and it’s all for the best anyway.
Plus, I feel like everything happens for a reason.
And for the first time in a long time and in some kind of way that I can’t fully explain, I feel like something exciting is just around the corner.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Maritza
“You have something stuck in your teeth.” His name is Blake and he’s a six-foot two former linebacker and current pharmacy student at USC.
My hand covers my mouth as my eyes widen. “Really? Where?”
“Right … here.” He flashes his perfect teeth and points between the two front ones.
“Oh, jeez. I’m always getting food stuck there, in the tiniest, most microscopic little gap. That’s what I get for losing my retainer my freshman year of high school and thinking my teeth were going to stay perfectly in place for all eternity.” I drag my tongue along my teeth before smiling. “Did I get it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But now I miss the little guy. He was kind of cute.”
Laughing, I roll my eyes. “That’s what I get for saying yes to the freshly ground pepper on my salad.”
“Those pepper mills, man. They’re irresistible.” His hand rests on the white linen table cloth as his eyes catch mine over a flickering candle. We’re dining al fresco on the rooftop of some Laguna Beach diamond-in-the-rough, the ocean waves crashing in the distance.
And speaking of diamond-in-the-rough, I’m pretty sure I’m sitting across from one right now—only this one was hiding on Tinder of all places. Tinder!
I only stumbled across him a couple of weeks ago because Melrose swore by Tinder and Rachael swore off Tinder and I agreed to settle their argument by selecting one lucky gentleman and giving it a go myself—for fun, of course. And science.
Looks like Melrose is winning the debate thus far.
“Whenever you’re ready.” Our server places the leather check wallet between us, skewing more toward Blake’s side of the table and as soon as she leaves, we both reach for it at the same time.
He gets there first.
“I got it,” he says, digging into his back pocket and retrieving a shiny American Express card.
“You sure?” I ask. I don’t want to be that girl who makes an awkward thing out of paying for a check but this is only the third time we’ve hung out, he knows we’re simply having fun, and this was by no means a stepping stone to boyfriend and girlfriend territory.
“Stop.” He waves me off. A moment later, our server returns to grab his card. “So … what are you doing after this?”
Resting my elbow on the table and my head in my hand, I sigh. “Homework. You?”
“Really? On a Friday night?”
I bite my lip. “Don’t judge. I picked up a shift tomorrow so I have to go to bed early tonight anyway. It works out.”
“All right, so what about tomorrow night? What are you doing then?”
I smirk. “What is this? What are you doing here?”
“Trying to ask you on a date.”
“Like a date date? Or just hanging out?”
“What’s the difference?” he asks, head cocked.
“Expectations,” I say. “And wardrobe selection.”
His blue eyes drift from my face to my collarbone and back. “Did you dress for a date tonight?”
“Not really …” I look down at my ripped jeans and silk tank top, reaching for my Kendra Scott rose quartz earrings. “Was I supposed to? Was this a date? I thought we were just getting to know each other? Having fun?”
“What’s the difference between that and dating?” he asks.
“Expectations. I told you that,” I say with a teasing chuckle. “Get on my level, Blake. I’m losing you here.”
Our server returns with his receipt, which he wastes no time signing. I gather my bag and he follows me to the exit, placing his hand on the small of my back as he walks me to the parking lot.
We stop at my car and he stands in such a way that I wonder if I should offer him some water because his feet are firmly planted, practically rooting into the ground beneath his leather boat shoes.
“I want to see you again, Maritza,” he says.
Ordinarily when an intelligent, charming, well-studied man with impossibly good looks and a killer sense of humor looks at a girl like she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen and tells her he wants to see her again, she should feel something. A missed heartbeat, a flush in her cheeks, a tingle in her belly.