Page 18 of Fake Dates and Home Plates
“Oh, absolutely. I figure I might as well give you the entire experience.” I’m absolutely going overboard, but it’s worth it just to amuse her.
Henley snorts, but climbs in. “I’m still deciding whether the plan is genius or terrible.”
Genius, for sure. My Jeep has never looked better than it does right now, with her smiling in the passenger seat.
I shut the door dramatically, run around the front, and hop into the driver’s seat. “It’s probably both, but it’s going to be entertaining. That picture you posted last night had a ton of comments.”
All of them with differing opinions—some people commenting on how fast she moved on, others trying to pick out a couple name for us.
I’m partial to Barkin, the fusion of our last names.
“Yeah, people have a lot to say,” she mumbles, mostly to herself.
Without words, I hand her the cord to play music from her phone, and even though we ride in silence, it doesn’t feel awkward at all.
Our destination isn’t a fancy restaurant or a movie theater. Even if Henley thinks this is all fake, I’m not going to waste her time with something impersonal.
It doesn’t take long to get to one of my favorite spots in the city: a bookstore with an attached coffee shop that sits at the end of the block in the less popular area downtown.
It has floor-to-ceiling shelves, and the tables are rarely occupied. It’s my favorite place to study.
Henley gives me a sideways look as we pull into the tiny lot. “Our date is at a bookstore?”
“Technically,” I say, turning off the engine, “I brought you to a bookstoreslashcafé that serves the best frozen mocha in town. Thank me later.”
She slowly unbuckles her seatbelt. “I wasn’t expecting…this.”
I’d be disappointed if I were predictable, but I still want to make sure she’s interested. “Have I let you down?”
She shakes her head. “Surprised. In a nice way.”
Score.
I open her door again like a menace and offer my arm. “Would you like to play pretend and drink overpriced lattes while I find a book for the week?”
“Sure,” she says with a shrug, linking her arm through mine.
Inside, the space is cozy, with numerous seating options. It’s quiet, save for the soft jazz music playing over the outdated speaker system. I inhale the smell of espresso before waving at the barista.
“The usual?” he asks me.
I nod before adding, “Make it two, please.”
This guy is usually the one here on weekdays, but I recognize him from campus too. His nametag says Gavin.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Henley nervously snap the scrunchie on her wrist.
I grab her hand without really thinking and lead us to a table in the corner. “Everything alright?” I ask her.
“Perfect,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Did you run today?” Because I’m a conversational genius, I ask the girl known for running all about running. Great. The confidence I’m faking is wavering.
She hums a little laugh, tracing her finger along a crack in the wooden tabletop. “I did. Six miles at an easy pace.”
“Six miles sounds criminal,” I say, hoping to pull a real smile from her. “I don’t even drive that far unless I’m promised tacos.”
“Easy enough for me. At least it wasn’t hill repeats,” she says, more to her coffee cup than me. I raise a brow in question, and she explains. “It’s where you sprint uphill and jog back down, over and over again.”
