Page 54 of Overtime
With a final wave, she closes the door. I stand there for a moment, biting my lip. It’s like Ryan could read my mind and make me voice every thought. Yes, this does feel an awful lot like it’s going to be a date. I couldn’t even sleep well last night because of how much I was anticipating it.
But also yes, Aran is not into me in that way. He acted normal even during the study session and movie marathon we had Saturday while we were making sure I didn’t have a concussion. Sure, his mind was in the gutter a few times, but not about me. It was because I kept putting my foot in my mouth. We sat a foot apart on the couch, and he didn’t look at me in a salacious way, because there’s just nothing salacious about me.
I’m the kind of girl he can comfortably be around with no pressure. Like Ryan. Or maybe even like his sisters. I don’t know.
Standing by the exterior balcony, I immediately locate his black SUV. The headlights are on, the beams dancing in the falling snow. As I head down the stairs, I’m glad I spilled the beans to Ryan. It was a good last-minute reminder that I’m not the kind of girl Aran Rodriguez goes for and that there will be nothing attractive about me learning how to skate.
The cabin is dark inside his car, but I make out his silhouette easily. I don’t know if he watches me as I round his car, but when I open the door, his eyes are fixed on his phone as he texts with someone.
“Hey.”
One of his caveman sounds is the response I get.
Yep, definitely no romance in the air.
I heft myself up into the seat by the door handle and buckle up. “Okay, ready when you’re ready.”
He nods, though I don’t know if the gesture is to me or the phone. After a quick moment, he drops it in the cupholder and turns up the music a bit. His eyes stop on me for a second, but then he sets the car in motion, and off we go.
In full silence.
Aran is the picture of relaxation as he drives. Left elbow on the door, hand loosely on the steering wheel. His right hand is the one doing the steering, which I find interesting.
“How come you drive with your right? I thought you were left-handed.”
“I’m ambidextrous, actually.” The rumble of his voice fills the cabin.
“So you can write with your right?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow, I wish I had that superpower.”
Dark eyes flash to me for a second and then focus back on the road.
I regret having zipped up my coat all the way. My phone’s in my fanny pack, and I really wish I had something to do with my hands so they’d stop fiddling with my hair or the seat belt.
“Nervous?”
I jump a little at his question, which gives him the answer. Laughing an unhinged little laugh, I say, “Yes, actually. Mildly terrified.”
“Skating’s not that hard.”
The knives on my feet aren’t what I’m nervous about.
Still, determined to not let Ryan become a murderer, I say, “Easy for the hockey player to say.”
“Just trust me. I wasn’t born wearing skates.”
And I do trust him. Maybe that’s the problem.
Once upon a time, about two and a half years ago, I had a crush on a guy in my department. He was smart, funny, and a year older, which, back then made him seem so mature. And he was such a nice guy to everyone, including me. Of course, I took that to mean more than it did. And because back then, I had a lot more illusions—or delusions—about guys than I do now, I developed a huge crush on him.
One time at a party, I got a lil bit tipsy and confessed my feelings to him. He admitted that, even though he saw me as a friend, we could go on a date and see how things went. I was over-the-moon excited. I even got Rebs to do some fancy makeup for me that later made my face break out. Anyway, the date went well because we talked about writing and books and our plans for the future.
But that wasn’t enough. And I felt it when we kissed on our second date. Our lips touched, and it was as if we’d both forgotten how to move. Like maybe his lips were a square and mine were a round peg.
Things were awkward after that, and we obviously didn’t keep going out. But we also stopped being comfortable with each other. And that broke my heart even more.
