Page 15 of The Kiss Class

Me: Also, Chard has five more minutes and if he’s not here, you’ll have to come pick me up because I am not sitting in the pool of dank minivan roof water.

Anna Bannanna: We just got home and put another sheet of cookies in the oven. Give him ten more minutes.

Me: Seven.

Kangaroo Ilsa: While you’re waiting, text Nolan.

Kangaroo Ilsa: TEXT HIM.

I groan, knowing she’ll check later to see if I obeyed—and will take it upon herself to message the guy if I don’t. I open the thread Ilsa started. She named his contactKnight in Shining Armor, given the whole Zamboni costume thing.

Me: Hi, it’s me again. Well, it wasn’t me before. My sister initially texted to “break the ice.” Sorry, that was corny with the whole hockey thing. Actually, residents of Cobbiton know better than to make puns. The competition is fierce.

Knight in Shining Armor: No worries. I’m known for my sense of humor, among other things.

What does that mean? I’m not fluent inFlirt.

The server brings me water, and I order an appetizer. Feeling awkward, sitting here as the only person in the Fish Bowl who is alone, I turn back to my phone.

Me: Are you in town for the holidays?

I instantly feel stupid because, of course, he is since there’s a game a few days before Christmas. He’ll have to run the Zamboni and dress up like a knight who wields a Christmas lights-wrapped hockey sword. It’s a thing. I have to admit, that’s kind of cringe. So are the rowdy group of guys behind me playing darts. Why do they have to be so loud?

Well, one of them isn’t. He’s busy texting. I can’t decide ifit’s rude that he’s ignoring his friends or if he’s cool for not participating in their childishness—the game of darts has escalated to include a Christmas fruitcake points-based system. Maybe he’s messaging his grandmother, asking what she wants for Christmas.

All those guys have my father’s build, well, when he was younger. They’re also boisterous, and a few have longer hair and beards so it’s safe to assume they’re hockey players. This is not typically my scene. I do my best to avoid hockey and not because I’m not a fan. Mostly because Ricky ruined it for me. And romance. I should be over it by now, but his trickery was humiliating. To this day, I cannot smell pineapple and not gag.

Knight in Shining Armor: Yep, I’ll be there. Nowhere I’d rather be—will you watch the Knights crush it?

Me: I’d rather be anywhere but here. Not Cobbiton. It's great. But my sisters set me up on a blind date. I hope that doesn’t make me sound shallow or pathetic, considering the auspices under which we’ve started texting. Truth is, if there’s someone out there for me, we’ll find each other. No sisterly intervention is required.

The little dots blink, indicating he’s typing. The time in the corner of my phone says that Richard is officially thirty minutes late, which means I’m leaving as soon as I pay for my “Stuffed Pub Potato Skin Pucks.”

Knight in Shining Armor: I’ll be honest, too. I don’t quite recall your sister, but I meet loads of people all the time. I hope that doesn’t make me sound shallow, either. Now we’re even. But I like what you said about finding the one. That’s sweet, and I don’t come across a lot of that.

His comments bolster me a bit. I tell myself to branch out. Be brave. And maybe rebel. By that, I mean prove to my sisters that I’m not just the brainy-innocent one. I glance around to find someone also sitting solo. Once again, my gaze lands on the guy with the hockey team but still on his phone, probably texting his girlfriend or a puck bunny.

If I can get through tonight, perhaps I’ll find the courage to tell my family that I’m going to be a video game concept artist.

Probably.

It’s not a foregone conclusion, but I left law school and officially enrolled in the program, so hopefully, the sixth time is the charm because that’s how many majors I’ve gone through.

Once more, I survey the room, wondering if this is one of those sliding doors blind dates. Perhaps Richard has been here the whole time, and so have I, but we didn’t connect and will repeatedly pass through each other’s lives until it’s too late.

Again, my gaze lands on the guy who sporadically involves himself in the game of darts but is otherwise texting. He cuts a glare at a guy seated at a table with several women, then returns his attention to his phone.

He has flirty eyes ringed with dark lashes. I tilt my head, hoping to get a better glimpse in the low light. His irises are lighter, and the contrast is pleasing—purely from a color theory and design standpoint. It’s not like I think he’s attractive, especially if he’s a hockey player.

Everything about him is broad, built to fillextra-large garments. I can’t see much of him from the midsection down, but I’d bet that he spends a lot of time working out and on the ice like all the hockey hopefuls in Cobbiton.

He and another one of the guys exchange a few words. My gaze freezes on his lips. His eyes float to mine for the briefest moment before I avert my gaze, kind of wanting to hide under the table. I return to the text thread with Knight in Shining Armor because that feels slightly safer.

Me: That’s nice of you to say, and I’m glad we’re on the same page. I don’t want to be rude, but is it okay if we just skip the dating thing? The blind date turned out to be a dud, and I’m not exactly looking for a knight in shining armor.

Knight in Shining Armor: You certainly don’t seem like a damsel in distress. How about we just be text pals?

A giggle escapes because maybe Ilsa wasn’t entirely wrong in her matching me with this guy. Text pals? Who says that other than a certifiable dork? I almost raise my hand in the middle of the crowded room. Dork? Nerd? That would be yours truly! But the proof is in the Christmas pudding. Guys don’t date dorks like me. My phone beeps again as I leave money on the table for the tab and a tip.

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