Page 17 of Perfectly Us
“Yep. You’re off tomorrow?”
I nod.
“See you Thursday, then.”
I clock out, tell Amanda bye, and head out to the parking lot. Damn, it’s humid today. I crank the AC once I’m in my car and pull out my phone while I’m still parked.
Me:Just got off work.
Alex:Cool! Wanna grab dinner? I’m starviiiiiiing.
Do guys normally ask other guys to dinner? The few friends I had in school invited me out to eat, but it was always as a group. Not one-on-one.
Stop overthinking it. It’s just dinner. No wonder I don’t have many friends. I’m an anxiety-ridden, overanalytical weirdo who thinks everyone has some secret agenda.
Me:Yeah. I’m hungry too.
Alex:Pizza sound good?? Tonight’s all you can eat buffet at Caesar’s.
He added a row of drooling emojis at the end.
Me:Sounds good. Meet at 6:30? I need to go home for a few.
Alex:Okay!! :)
Dad isn’t home yet when I pull into the driveway. I go inside the house and jog up the stairs to my room. What I’m wearing is fine, but I find myself looking through the shirts in my closet anyway. I choose a pale blue button-up and a plain white tee to go on underneath it. I mess with my hair in the bathroom mirror, sliding my fingers through the dark brown strands and trying to make myself not look so much like a bum.
Do I need some cologne? I sniff myself. I smell like fabric softener and coffee. That’s kind of pleasing, right?
The front door opens and closes downstairs, followed by the jingle of keys. “Shiloh?”
“Up here.”
Footsteps come up the stairs, and then Dad’s at the bathroom door. I left it open. “Hey, I thought we could do spaghetti for dinner. That okay?”
“Actually…” I turn to him. “I have plans.”
Surprise flickers across his face. “Oh? The kid who invited you to the party?”
I nod. “We’re going to eat pizza.”
“That’s great. Guess I’ll have to order takeout. Bummer. I really wanted to cook too.” Dad winks before walking to his bedroom.
I arrive at Caesar’s a quarter after six. Alex is sitting at a booth near the window, laughing as he talks to the couple at the table behind him. He seems the type to make friends wherever he goes. No one is a stranger to him.
I think of magnets as I walk toward him, like we’re opposite poles that can’t help but be drawn together.
“Hey,” Alex says as I slide into the seat across from him. Once again, he lights up like seeing me is something special. “You made it just in time. I was about to devour everything off the buffet. Well, almost everything. I don’t like salad.”
“Shocker.” I fight a smile.
A waitress takes our drink orders, then tells us to help ourselves to the buffet. We stand from the booth at the same time, which is awkward, and walk over to grab plates. Our hands brush together as we reach for one at the same time—awkward again.
My face heats and I drop my hand, letting him go first.
If Alex notices my nerves, he doesn’t say anything.
Unlike him, I love salad. I fill a bowl with iceberg lettuce, cheese, carrots, cubed ham, and drench it with ranch dressing before stacking a few pieces of supreme pizza on my plate.
