Page 60 of Slots & Sticks
“But…”
Cash rises. He clasps my shoulder. “Kid, you need to think of this as a last call at the bar. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
At least one of us is good at making up his mind. I take my mail, wave farewell, and I go.
* * *
Half an hour after I get home, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from Cash:
All set up. Wynn @ 7, tomorrow night. They’ll be expecting you. Don’t ask questions. Goodbye forever.
Geeze, is he helping me, or threatening me? Given how fast my heart is racing, the sudden plans might do me in either way. I reply,Thank you. If it were anyone else, I’d say more, but Cash prefers brevity.
Then I open my contacts with trembling fingers to pull up Dot’s number. My palms are sweaty. My stomach’s doing weird origami.
Something visceral and boyish to reinforce that teenage-crush energy.
Me: Hey. Random question: what’s your stance on dinner? Like… official dinner. Me + you.
Delete. Too needy.
Try again:
Wynn tomorrow @ 7? No pressure. Just us. Also I acquired a cat tree that looks like a mushroom.
Delete. Why am I like this?
Soot headbutts my thumb. The cursor blinks like it’s judging me. Cash’s text sits above the thread like a dare.
Okay. Simple. True.
Me: Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night? 7 pm. I’ll pick you up at 6. P.S. I miss you.
I hover over Send, then hit it before I can chicken out. Immediate regret. I toss the phone on the cushion like it’s hot and pace three laps around the coffee table.
The phone buzzes.
Dot: You had me at dinner. 6 works. And for the record… I miss you too.
My knees go weird. I sink onto the couch, grinning at the ceiling like an idiot.
Me: Great. Dress code is “more-than-friendship bracelets.”
The typing bubbles pop up, disappear, return.
Dot: Copy that, husband. (Kidding. Mostly.) See you at 7.
I set the phone face down and press both hands over my stupid, sprinting heart. Soot curls into the crook of my arm and purrs like she knows I just did the scariest, best thing.
Tomorrow at seven. It’s on.
Chapter Fourteen
Dot
“—you’re what now?” Knova’s voice bursts through my phone, half amusement, half alarm.
“I’m going on a date,” I whisper-squeak, gripping the sheet I’ve been trying to wrestle onto the guest bed. “With Camden. A real date. Like, dinner at the Wynn. Tomorrow night.”
