Page 172 of Shy Girls Can't Fake Date

I pace my bedroom floor and struggle for a regular intake of air as my chest constricts. I can’t go to his house tonight if he’s mad at me. What if he’s expecting me not to turn up? What if I get there and he yells at me in front of his family?

“Kikki, are you okay in there?” Mom calls from the second floor landing.

“I don’t think I can go tonight,” I call back.

“Why not, honey?”

“Parker hasn’t replied to my text and I think he’s mad at me.”

Mom’s laughter hums through my closed bedroom door. “Honey, he’s having you meet his parents. He’s probably a nervous wreck. Don’t let an unanswered text throw you off your game. They’re going to love you.” The doorknob turns. “Do you need a hug?”

“I’m still getting dressed,” I answer. “Afterwards, yes.”

“Well, don’t be too long. We’ll need to get going soon.”

“Yep. Thanks, Mom.”

I blow out a long exhale and move toward the full-length mirror. I can’t believe I spiraled like that. Especially after an entire afternoon of fixating on our lingering touches.

I can’t believe it happened more than once.

We’ve held hands so many times this week. But that was always to put on a show. This was in my house. In privacy. No one was watching us. But there it was. A lingering touch. I swear, I still feel it now.

Why is that? Why won’t it get out of my head?

Was it fueled by the fact I helped him with the cut on his finger?

The worst part is, I can’t replace the memory with Lewis in Parker’s place. Before this week, I could put Lewis into any situation to get the maximum romantic enjoyment out of it. But this time, it’s like fantasyland is shut down.

Ugh. I can’t stop picturing Parker’s stupid, enthusiastic, energetic face.

Needless to say, I’ve been splashing cold water on my face all afternoon. The only thing slightly distracting me was decorating the cake. It’s exquisite, if I do say so myself.

I get dressed in a yellow tank top and floral skirt. It’s nice not to thumb through my wardrobe for blue outfits.

“Ready to go, Kikki?” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs.

I slip into a pair of beige wedge sandals and leave my bedroom. “Coming.”

“Aww, don’t you look adorable,” Dad says by the staircase.

I move in so he can kiss my cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Have a nice time, honey,” he says, rubbing a circle on my back.

“I will. Hopefully, they like me.”

He pinches my cheek. “How could they not?”

I move down the stairs and meet Mom, who holds the Tupperware containing the layer cake.

“This looks fabulous, honey,” Mom says, handing the container over to me.

“Thanks. I was a bit nervous that it was going to slide.”

“Don’t fret. I checked it before taking it out of the kitchen. There’s no lean on it.”

I breathe out slowly, and follow Mom to the car.

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