Page 12 of How to Score Off Field

I pull up to Miranda’s. I’m staying with her over the weekend because I have no desire to stay with my parents. The last thing I want the night of the bachelorette party is to sneak into the house in the middle of the night and get scolded for being out so late. As if I were a child and still had a curfew, my parents keep track of my every move when I’m home.

How quickly they forget I’m twenty-one years old.

“Well, ifthatwas one of the most awkward and painful thirty minutes of my life, I don’t know what was.” I slap my purse onto Miranda’s kitchen counter, immediately go to the fridge, and fish out a bottle of white wine.

My best friend walks out of her bedroom, already pulling her hair into a messy topknot.

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

Now I’m at the cabinet pulling out a stemless wineglass—two wineglasses—and setting them on the counter with a clink.

“Yes. It actually was.”

She laughs, padding across the tile floor in bare feet. “Do tell.”

Miranda moved to Belvedere when we were seniors, so she wasn’t actually here to witness the most painful years of my crush on Drew. She’s only heard a few horror stories.

She plops down at the counter, leaning forward on her elbows, watching me fill our glasses.

“We barely spoke. It was so bad.”

“Barely spoke? How is that possible?”

“Erm. Well. He got in, and I asked how the flight was, and he said good. Then I asked if there was any turbulence, and he said no and thanked me for picking him up.” I leave out the little details, like how I didn’t look at him, not even when I dropped him off. Not even when I gave him that tiny wave goodbye. I was too quick to get the ordeal over with.

Miranda smacks her lips after her first sip of cheap wine as if it were a fine vintage.

“Who cares? You’re over him. Plus, you’ll barely be seeing him this weekend.” She pauses, thinking. “Unless you’re the one who has to take him back to the airport, in which case you can redeem yourself.”

“Oh, I’ll be seeing him this weekend. WE will be seeing him.” I tip my wineglass toward her. “He’ll be at the bachelor party, which we know is gonna end at Boot Scoot Boogie.”

They always do.

BSB has been the most popular dance hall since the late sixties and that hasn’t changed over the years. Same floor, same stage, same horseshoes nailed to the Stallion and Little Fillies bathroom doors.

“So.” She’s still leaning forward, swirling the drink in her glass. “What does he look like now? Did he get uglier?”

I groan. “No.” I don’t think. “I didn’t actually look directly at him, but I’m assuming he’s better looking.”

That makes Miranda laugh, wine bubbling on her tongue. “You are so awkward.”

“See! This is what I’m saying! It was painful. He had no interest in me either, so I guess that makes us even.”

“Bro. You picked him up from the airport. Of course he wasn’t interested; he was tired.”

I pick at an imaginary piece of lint on my tee shirt. “I could have picked him up while I was naked and he still wouldn’t have noticed me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m confused. Did you want him to notice you?”

Duh. “Doesn’t a girl always want a guy to notice her?”

“Not every guy. Just certain guys.” She sighs and takes a sip. “You have to make up your mind. Are you going to pretend you don’t like him anymore, or will you go for it?”

Go for it.

Say what now?

No.

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