Page 29 of Fake As Puck
“We should go in,” I say finally.
“Yeah.”
But neither of us moves to get out of the car, and I start to wonder if maybe I’m not the only one who wishes things turned out differently.
7
We’re sitting in my car in the driveway, and I’m trying to figure out how to say what I need to say without sounding like a complete psychopath.
“So,” I start, then stop. “We should probably... practice.”
“Practice?”
“Being a couple. In public. I don’t want us to look awkward tomorrow.”
She turns to look at me, and I can see her trying to figure out if I’m serious.
“Practice being a couple,” she repeats.
“Yeah. Like, couple things. Hand-holding. Standing close. Looking comfortable together.”
“West, we’ve known each other for fifteen years. I think we can manage to stand next to each other without looking like strangers.”
“But we’ve never stood next to each other as a couple. There’s a difference.”
“There is?”
“Yeah. There’s like... body language. Proximity. Casual touching.”
“Casual touching?”
“You know what I mean.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how to explain this without sounding like I just want an excuse to touch her.
Which I don’t.
“Just... wait here,” I say, getting out of the car.
“What are you doing?”
“Practicing.”
I walk around to her side of the car and open her door, extending my hand to help her out.
“Thank you,” she says, taking my hand and stepping out of the car.
“See? That felt natural.”
“It felt like you opening a car door.”
“It felt like your boyfriend opening a car door.”
“Did it?”
“Yeah. It did.”
We walk to the house, and I unlock the front door, gesturing for her to go in first.
