Page 17 of A Fighting Chance

Lyla:I hate it when you say YOLO.

Cora:There’s no alternative.

Lyla:There are a million alternatives to that outdated acronym.

Cora:YOLO.

Lyla:I hate you.

Cora:You don’t.

The rustling of gravel catches my attention and I look up to see Gentry sauntering toward me. I didn’t even know people actually sauntered but sure enough, the man is actually doing it. The sun at his back casts a long shadow over him and I can see the sweat rolling down his forearms.

He stops a few feet short of me. “Ready to go?”

I stand from my place on the steps and walk forward. “So, you can just follow me and then I’ll hop in with you?”

He nods, and we both get into our trucks to head toward town.

* * *

After handing over the rental, I’m in Gentry’s truck and we’re on our way back but it’s not exactly a short ride. The closest rental return was forty-five minutes from the farm.

“So, did you have a nice shower earlier?” Gentry asks out of nowhere, and I reach for the door handle, completely prepared to tuck and roll.

“It was fine, thank you,” I say, sure I’m turning bright red everywhere.

“I’m sure you felt nice and relaxed after,” he says, and I know what he’s poking at.

“Look, we’re just…we’re not going to discuss that, all right? Okay? I’m an adult. That’s my shower time. I can do whatever I want to in there,” I snap.

I look over at him and he’s just smirking with his stupid perfect face and his right dimple is pronounced and I want to put my pinky in it.

Stupid dimple.

“Anyway, on a scale from zero resistance to I’ll owe you a favor, how hard would it be for me to convince you to stop for food?” I ask, wanting desperately to change the topic. It’s not that I’m playing into my sister’s matchmaking idea of gettingdinnertogether. It’s more like I’m on the verge of starving and my stomach is about to start eating itself if I don’t put something in it soon.

“I wish I could pull that favor, but I’m starving, actually,” he says.

“Thank you for agreeing to help me take the rental back, by the way,” I say, realizing he too gave up a home-cooked meal to help me.

“It’s not a problem,” he says with a shrug. “What do you feel like eating?”

“I know there’s probably a slim chance there’s a sushi place around here, but like, is there a sushi place around here?” I ask.

Gentry starts laughing. “As a matter of fact, there is one.”

I jump up and down in my seat with excitement and realize in the same moment I’m not wearing a bra, which calms me down.

“Like sushi, do you?” he asks.

“Maybe a little,” I say.

He rolls his eyes, teasingly. “I see that.”

A few minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of a small restaurant called Osaka. From the outside, it’s what you’d expect of an Asian restaurant in this area. The lettering is sharp and bold. Minimal decoration. Small shrubs.

“Wait there,” he says. He gets out and walks around the truck then opens my door for me. He holds out his hand to me, looking into my eyes expectantly.

---