Page 84 of Skating and Fake Dating
“Exactly,” I say, driving toward town.
As we pass under a street light, Bailey flashes a grin. “We’ll just have to battle over the bill. Lucky for me, there’s a good chance I know whoever is working tonight.”
The two large windows flanking the entrance to the brick building housing the Rustic Slice glow warmly, invitingly.
Despite her feistiness about the bill, I hold open the door for Bailey. Technically, this isn’t a date, but I’ll still be a gentleman. The scent of dough, and simmering tomato sauce with garlic and herbs greets us along with, of course, someone who knows Bailey. She chats with the gal at the counter, taking care of the order for us.
Groups and couples fill the tables and I grab one tucked in the corner. Usually, after a game, I need to be mopped off the floor from exhaustion, but tonight I feel invigorated, despite the outcome.
Bailey strides toward me with two cups of soda and sets them on the table. “I took the liberty to order you the same thing that I always get.”
I arch an eyebrow in question.
“A slice of pepperoni and grape soda.”
My eyes bulge. “They really still make that stuff?”
She leans in like she’s about to reveal a secret. “Bottled grape soda is probably toxic sludge, but here, they just add carbonated water to grape juice. Insider secret. Don’t tell anyone.”
I make a lip-locking motion. “The Rustic Slice secret is safe with me, along with your maple syrup smuggling operations.”
Bailey flashes an indulgent grin and I wonder if it’s dinner I’m hungry for or her.
From behind us, someone calls her name, indicating our slices are ready. She dashes over and returns with them, along with shakers of red pepper flakes and parmesan cheese.
I watch as she loads up her pizza, picks it up, and taps the tipof my slice. “Cheers to a great game, the Ice Breakers, and a very handsome wingman who scored a goal.”
This woman brims with personality, uniqueness, amusement. Even the simplest things are an event. I kind of love it.
“Cheers,” I repeat, appreciating her comment more than I should.
After a few bites and wiping her mouth, she bounces in her seat. “So, I was thinking …”
I lean in, eager to hear what she has to say.
Wearing a mischievous smile, Bailey asks, “Ready for a blast from the past?”
“The stereo system is playing a tune from the 1980s, so how far back do you want to go?”
Will she suggest we launch a rocket in her backyard? Search for buried treasure. Oh, wait. We did.
Taking a cautious look around, Bailey pulls the metal box out of her bag. What else does she keep in there besides the contraband maple syrup? A complete set of encyclopedias—do they still make those?—a full-sized stapler, packets of condiments, a pair of galoshes?
It’s the time capsule we discovered when we were stuck in the basement.
“Dare me to open it?” She bites her lip and her eyes tip my way.
Swallowing because I’m more interested in her than the box, I nod.
After she sets up her phone to record our discovery, we huddle together over the table, our foreheads practically touching, pizza forgotten. The metal box sits between us, tarnished but intact, a literal piece of history … or it could just be full of dirt.
Bailey’s fingers trace the edges, looking for a way in. “It’s sealed pretty tight. Pocketknife?” She holds out her hand like a surgeon requesting a scalpel.
“You mean to say you don’t have one in that Mary Poppins handbag of yours?”
She laughs, a sound that makes me feel like I won at the game of life—never mind hockey or video games.
I pull out my grandfather’s pocketknife and work the flat side of the blade under the edge of the lid. It resists as if to ask if we’re really sure about this. Once the box is opened, it can’t be closed. The hinges are rusty, but when I’m able to pry it upward about a quarter inch, Bailey adds her fingers to the effort. Our hands touch, and I pretend not to notice the electric jolt that shoots up my arm.
