I sigh. Relieved. But then I see that my cup was crushed between our bodies and both of us are mildly covered.
"Shoot!" I curse, wiping the liquid off my jacket, running my hand down the front of my pants, and swatting the spill away. Luckily, it's coming off pretty easily and after a moment I switch, rubbing Patrick's jacket, wiping the material clean, murmuring, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
But then I freeze. Because my hand is rubbing the bottom of his coat, which is on top of his slacks, which are over his, uh, privates…
I snatch my fingers back.
Did I just feel Patrick up in public? Oh my god, did I just sexually assault him? And in front of a little boy too!
Petrified, I look up—right into his perfectly beautiful evergreen-tinted eyes. Now we're staring at each other in silence. He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. An eternity seems to fill the air around us, creating a bottomless gulf between our bodies. An impassable divide. And everything in my body says to flee, to retreat, to get away as soon as humanly possible.
So I blurt, "Napkins!"
And then I run…like a five-year-old.
This is so not the second date I had in mind.
A few moments later, I'm cowering in the bushes on the side of the restaurant—stomach growling with the enhanced smell of delicious food—reminding myself to breathe, just breathe. It's not a big deal. I'm making way too much out of nothing. I mean, he probably didn't even notice. If he was fourteen, that might have just rocked his world. But he's twenty-four, and experienced, and now probably just thinks I'm crazy because of how I reacted…pull it together!
I take a deep breath, looking around, meeting the eyes of a few strangers tossing curious glances in my direction. I mean, I'm crouching behind a bush for crying out loud. Does it get any worse than this? Then I hear the ominous flap of wings and look up. I'm directly below about twenty pigeons, and each bulbous eye is pointed in my direction, shining with a devilish gleam. A whole new bout of terror clenches my gut.
Crap—literally!
I jump out of the way. Is that the splat of droppings landing on dry leaves or am I just imagining it? I don't turn around to find out. The world just sent me a message and I got it, loud and clear. Suddenly, facing Patrick doesn’t seem so bad. Especially when the alternative is getting dumped on, like actually dumped on, by pigeons. I shiver, forcing the image from my mind, and grab a few napkins from the dispenser before returning to the line.
For a moment, I think he ditched me.
I mean really, who could blame him?
But then the crowd shifts a little, and I see that he's there, scanning the line and looking for me too. I smile when our eyes meet, a little more comfortable than before, and wave with my napkin-filled hand.
"Sorry," I murmur as I close the space. "You'd think for a place teeming with ketchup, napkins would be easier to find."
We both take a second to pat ourselves dry. And then the silence returns.
"So…" I trail off, unable to bear it.
"So—" he starts, but then a ringing cell phone interrupts and he digs his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a blackberry, scanning the screen. He cringes, looking at me with a sorry expression and steps out of line, whispering, "I have to take this."
I watch out of the corner of my eyes as he nods, says something, nods again. I've never wanted to be able to read lips more! But a second later he hangs up and I stare forward, pretending I wasn't completely eavesdropping on his call—not like it did me any good or anything.
"Work?" I ask.
"Unfortunately," he says, tone grim. I hold back my frown. "It was my boss. Something fell through on the deal we're working on and I have to get back right now. We need to completely overhaul our presentation for the morning, and it's going to take all night. I'm so sorry."
I shrug, pasting on a smile. "It's okay, I understand."
"Rain check?" he asks.
I smile and nod.
And then he turns around, walking away without so much as goodbye.
My face falls.
I can't help but notice there was no time or place associated with that rain check. No specifics. And I have the unsettling feeling that I've just been dumped. Was that call even real? Did he just not want to ditch me outright and asked a friend to call to give him an excuse? I thought that was just something girls did… And I really thought things were going well this time. I mean, until the whole molestation incident five minutes ago, but that wasn't that big of a deal—was it? Am I crazy? I had the butterflies with him—butterflies! Those don't happen very often, at least not to me.
"Skylar!"
I look up, hope springing to life, a burning flame in my chest.
Patrick is jogging back toward me, shaking his head.
"You don't have to go?" I ask, internally cringing a second later. That didn’t sound desperate, did it? Whatever. He came back! I don't really care how it sounded. Okay, well, that did sound a little desperate. Ugh. I focus on him instead of my incessant internal monologue.
"No, I have to go, I just completely forgot to ask you something."
"What?" I try to keep my voice light and casual. As though I'm not hanging on his next words. As though I'm not intertwining my fingers to keep from throttling him.
"Well…" he trails off, pursing his lips a little, thinking. "What are you doing for Halloween?"
I pause—I was not expecting that. Halloween is in like two weeks. Does he want to plan something in advance? Guys never want to plan dates so far in advance—not this early on. Maybe he's not breaking up with me…
"Nothing!" I chirp, a little too excited. But who cares? He's asking me out again!
"My friend Dan is having a Halloween party on his yacht and he needs the final guest list by Friday, so he can give the full manifest to the crew. Do you want to come?"
"Your friend has a yacht?" I blurt. And then realize the correct response was yes—easy, simple, one word. Yes. But it’s too late.
Patrick shrugs. "Oh, it's not his I guess, it's his parents."
Because that's totally normal…not.
I shake my head, refocusing, and say, "Yeah. I'd love to."
"Great." Patrick smiles widely, deepening the creases around his eyes as his whole face warms. And it's all for me. All because I agreed to another date. I flush.
He keeps talking, but my eyes are stuck on his lips, their perfect rosy color, and I'm distracted as I watch them move and pucker and widen. I'm not really listening, but am instead thinking about another kiss—a nice, sweet goodbye kiss. And I don't realize he's stopped talking until I notice his mouth has stopped moving.
I look up.
He's leaning forward, watching me—waiting.
"Oh, yeah, that would be great," I hastily reply, not sure what I've just agreed to.
An amused gleam shimmers to life in his eyes, and I wonder if he knows I have no idea what we're talking about. He raises his eyebrows, and says, speaking a little slower, definitely teasing me. "You said your friend was dating someone, right? They can both bring dates if they want, just text me everyone's full names by Friday so I can tell Dan. Okay?"
"Yes." I nod firmly—I heard him this time. I'm still not quite sure what happened or what I missed, but I did hear him. And then, just for extra emphasis, I add, "I'll text you."
"Sorry I have to leave," he says again, looking over his shoulder as though a giant clock is waiting there to show him that time is in fact ticking by.
"It's okay. Really." And I mean it.
Unlike before, he doesn’t just abruptly turn away and leave me. He leans in, closing the distance between us. But when he's just a few inches away, he pauses, peering at me mischievously.