water too. That’s another weird thing I do. Not sure why I do it, but I’ve done it since I was a little kid. Once the water is at the level I want, I stop counting. Sometimes it’s a 1,000 bath, and sometimes it’s a 500 bath. Weird, I know.
He orders the Peanut Buster parfait—sans peanuts—and we pull up to get our order. I reach into my purse to get some money out, but he holds up his hand.
“No way, I got this.” He hands the cashier the money and doesn’t even look back at me until she gives him his change.
“Jace, I can buy my own food. It’s not like we’re on a date or something.”
I don’t know why I’m such a glutton for punishment, but I just have to go and say that—with a shitload of sarcasm in my voice. He grimaces at me before turning back to get the food. He plops the bag down in the seat between us, and places the drinks in the cup holders. The cashier hands him the ice cream last.
He turns as he hands it to me. “Here’s your weird ice cream,” he says in a monotone voice.
He’s mad again. I can sense it, and it’s totally my fault. We pull onto the road and the direction he’s driving in tells me we’re going to his house.
Why are we going to his house?
“Where are we going?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I’m hoping he’ll elaborate on why without me having to ask.
“My house. My mom’s not home and she won’t be until late, so we’ll have privacy to talk, which we apparently really need to do,” he suggests.
God, he is still mad, and he still wants to talk. This won’t end well. I can feel it.
We’re sitting at the fancy outdoor table on his pool deck. The outdoor lighting reflects off the pool’s water, glistening as the sound of the waterfall fills the air.
This is way better than any restaurant.
He hands me my food and starts eating his. I ate all of my ice cream before we even got here, but I’m still hungry.
“I can’t believe you ate your ice cream before your food,” he says with a steak finger in his mouth.
“I can’t believe you talk with food in your mouth,” I tease.
Bravery is brimming inside of me, and I just want the dreadful anticipation of this talk to be over with already.
“Jace, what do you want to talk about?” I ask, but I don’t make eye contact.
Coward.
“Nope. Food first. Talk second.”
I look up at him as I dip my steak finger in the gravy. “Okay,” I agree guardedly.
We finish eating and he gets up to throw everything away. Then he goes in his garage and comes back out holding what looks like an empty beer bottle.
What the hell?
“Um, what’s that for?” I ask, pointing toward the bottle.
“Spin the bottle,” he says, completely serious.
Spin the freaking bottle? Really? He’s got to be joking right now.
His expression remains thoughtful as he plops back down in his chair. He places the bottle side down in the middle of the table then leans back, staring at me. I can’t help but laugh. It’s too much.
“It’s not what you’re thinking. You spin it and if it lands on the other person, you get to ask a question—any question—and the other person has to answer honestly. If it lands on nothing, which is likely since there are only two of us here, you have to tell a truth about yourself that the other person doesn’t know.” He pauses briefly before reaching out to grab the bottle.
I already don’t like this game and we haven’t even started yet. I think I like the middle school idea of regular spin the bottle much better.
“Here, ladies first,” he says, giving me the bottle. I spin the bottle and it lands on the chair beside me where no one is sitting.
“Truth,” he says as he bores a hole right through me with his indigo eyes.
“I’m sorry for making you mad today,” I tell him, because it’s the best truth I can come up with, and I am really sorry for making him mad.
He reaches out to spin the bottle without replying. It lands on the chair beside him. He
He orders the Peanut Buster parfait—sans peanuts—and we pull up to get our order. I reach into my purse to get some money out, but he holds up his hand.
“No way, I got this.” He hands the cashier the money and doesn’t even look back at me until she gives him his change.
“Jace, I can buy my own food. It’s not like we’re on a date or something.”
I don’t know why I’m such a glutton for punishment, but I just have to go and say that—with a shitload of sarcasm in my voice. He grimaces at me before turning back to get the food. He plops the bag down in the seat between us, and places the drinks in the cup holders. The cashier hands him the ice cream last.
He turns as he hands it to me. “Here’s your weird ice cream,” he says in a monotone voice.
He’s mad again. I can sense it, and it’s totally my fault. We pull onto the road and the direction he’s driving in tells me we’re going to his house.
Why are we going to his house?
“Where are we going?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I’m hoping he’ll elaborate on why without me having to ask.
“My house. My mom’s not home and she won’t be until late, so we’ll have privacy to talk, which we apparently really need to do,” he suggests.
God, he is still mad, and he still wants to talk. This won’t end well. I can feel it.
We’re sitting at the fancy outdoor table on his pool deck. The outdoor lighting reflects off the pool’s water, glistening as the sound of the waterfall fills the air.
This is way better than any restaurant.
He hands me my food and starts eating his. I ate all of my ice cream before we even got here, but I’m still hungry.
“I can’t believe you ate your ice cream before your food,” he says with a steak finger in his mouth.
“I can’t believe you talk with food in your mouth,” I tease.
Bravery is brimming inside of me, and I just want the dreadful anticipation of this talk to be over with already.
“Jace, what do you want to talk about?” I ask, but I don’t make eye contact.
Coward.
“Nope. Food first. Talk second.”
I look up at him as I dip my steak finger in the gravy. “Okay,” I agree guardedly.
We finish eating and he gets up to throw everything away. Then he goes in his garage and comes back out holding what looks like an empty beer bottle.
What the hell?
“Um, what’s that for?” I ask, pointing toward the bottle.
“Spin the bottle,” he says, completely serious.
Spin the freaking bottle? Really? He’s got to be joking right now.
His expression remains thoughtful as he plops back down in his chair. He places the bottle side down in the middle of the table then leans back, staring at me. I can’t help but laugh. It’s too much.
“It’s not what you’re thinking. You spin it and if it lands on the other person, you get to ask a question—any question—and the other person has to answer honestly. If it lands on nothing, which is likely since there are only two of us here, you have to tell a truth about yourself that the other person doesn’t know.” He pauses briefly before reaching out to grab the bottle.
I already don’t like this game and we haven’t even started yet. I think I like the middle school idea of regular spin the bottle much better.
“Here, ladies first,” he says, giving me the bottle. I spin the bottle and it lands on the chair beside me where no one is sitting.
“Truth,” he says as he bores a hole right through me with his indigo eyes.
“I’m sorry for making you mad today,” I tell him, because it’s the best truth I can come up with, and I am really sorry for making him mad.
He reaches out to spin the bottle without replying. It lands on the chair beside him. He
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