Chapter 12
The Brentwood Mall was empty. At least, their parking lot was. Then again, it was six-thirty on a Tuesday—no one was shopping when the mall would close in a little over an hour.
Which meant it was probably the best place to meet Logan for our second date.
I’d put my car into park five minutes ago, but I couldn’t do more than chew on the edge of my thumbnail.
Had I really meant it when I asked him to help me move on from worrying about high school stigma?
Because now, in the light of day and after the initial MLT spiral, I wasn’t totally sure I meant it.
My impulsivity was behind me—this totally seemed like a bad idea.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
Logan
You here yet?
I glanced around, searching for Logan’s car on the off chance he texted it while watching me. After a thorough scan, I didn’t see his.
Yeah, just pulled in.
Logan
Come up to the second floor.
I frowned.
Aren’t all the stores closed on the second floor?
There used to be a big department store that took up the majority of the level, but it went out of business years ago.
Logan
No questions.
I couldn’t help but snort a little at the straightforwardness, and some of my nerves ebbed. Apparently, Logan was bolder through text.
I flipped my visor and, for what felt like the millionth time, checked my appearance in the mirror.
I’d second-guessed it the entire ride over, since Jade hadn’t been there to help me this time.
I kept my mascara light, no liner, and left my blonde hair loose down my back.
I’d laced through just enough oil to keep the frizz at bay without it looking greasy.
The jeans I wore were flared out at the bottom, and I’d paired it with a baby blue tank top, a lightweight white cardigan covering my arms.
Pretty, but casual. If I ran into anyone, I could easily play it off like I was just wandering around the mall, not dressed up for a date.
Swallowing the nerves—and maybe a little bit of bile—I popped open my car door.
As I walked toward the mall’s entrance, I forced my thoughts on other things, trying to dim my pulse.
Jade didn’t bring up me skipping out on cheer practice again after this morning, and even more surprisingly, neither had Coach Chelsea.
Out of anyone, I would’ve thought she’d reem me out for it, but no one said anything when we met on the field after school.
Honestly, it only made me feel even worse. Jade had apologized for everything, and yet here I was, still committing treason.
Like the parking lot, the interior of the mall was empty. There were a few people milling about in the food court entrance, a few small lines at different vendors, but after doing a quick scan, I didn’t see anyone I recognized.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
Logan
Are you coming?
Smirking, I pocketed my phone and headed for the direction I remembered the escalators being.
If I thought the base level was empty, the second level was a ghost town. I could still hear the chatter of people below, though, white noise that nearly swallowed the sound of—was that music?
I followed the pathway past the closed store, toward where the lilting sound was coming from.
And there, just around a corner, sat a glowing arcade.
There were no doors separating the arcade from the main walkway, but the flooring changed from the tile to black-and-white checkered carpet squares.
Fluorescent lights illuminated row upon row of ancient-looking games, each one beckoning with their flickering neon signs and loud, almost carnival-like music.
And among all the nerdiness stood Logan.
He leaned against one of the racing games, looking down at his sneakers. He wore baggy jeans and a loose, half-buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His white shirt underneath glowed in the arcade lighting, like a beacon in the empty space.
Casual, much like what he wore on our first date. Back then, I’d been annoyed by the wrinkles in his clothes. This time, my eyes traced them almost happily. This, I decided. This was my favorite look on him.
I watched as his face transformed when he lifted his head.
His expression went from steady to lit up in an instant, and he threw his arms wide, just as he had done at Expresso’s last Monday.
“There she is!” he called grandly, an easy smile spreading across his lips.
It was still dorky, but less embarrassing without an audience. “Amazing, right?”
Logan’s excitement seemed genuine, which totally contradicted my urge to cringe.
“That’s one word for it,” I said, slowly inching nearer to gawk at the space behind him.
Up close, its flaws were clearer. Most of the games were dusty, and several of them were dark, as if broken.
There were a few stretches of the rainbow LED lights that were burnt out, and the checkered carpet had stains here and there. “I had no idea this was up here.”
“Not many people do. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
Do not scrunch your nose. “Perfect?”
“Old and forgotten. No pressure, no expectations.” Logan gave a little wiggle where he stood. I was becoming more and more convinced he was part Golden Retriever. “You had fun at mini golf, right? Let’s see if this is along the same lines.”
Okay, so even though the arcade was Dork Central, Logan was really cute about it. Thrilled. He swayed in place again, as if his nervousness about my approval made it impossible for him to stand still. I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I guess it is a perfect hideout for us.”
And—honestly? Maybe it was the perfect spot for our date. The whole point of going out with Logan was to prove to myself that I was above what high school deemed “cool.” Doing something dorky like going to an old arcade? It was like exposure therapy times two.
Logan’s gaze scanned my frame as he stood up from his lean. That was when it happened, his stunned look. As he took me in, I could see his expression shift with it. The blue in his eyes seemed to glow along with the arcade lights, his voice low. “You look—nice.”
I arched an eyebrow. “All you’re saying is that I look nice?” Sure, I wasn’t wearing anything like the dress from our first date, but c’mon.
Now Logan’s smile turned sheepish. “We’ve—we’ve established I’m bad at flirting.”
“When you take a girl on a date, you tell her she looks beautiful.” To punctuate that, I tilted my head, waiting.
Logan visibly swallowed, which caused the affection to unfurl even more in my chest. “Beautiful,” he echoed, looking down at me. This time, it was his eyes that smiled, not his lips. “You look beautiful.”
Despite the fact that I’d coached him into it, my heart still skipped a beat. “So, I’m assuming you want to play a few of these games, right?”
He cleared his throat, rubbing his hand quickly down the side of his face. “We’ve got options.” He turned and gestured at the sea of games that sat before us. “But I was thinking air hockey could be a good starter?”
I spotted it near the center of the room, with a golden spotlight shining down on the white surface.
I was kind of glad that no one wandered up here, because even if I was with someone else and not Logan, I would’ve died if they saw me wielding the air hockey thingy.
The Babble post would be mortifying. Cheer Co-Captain Trading Pom-Poms for Quarters?
“I hope you’re ready to lose,” I told Logan, leaning into it. Who’s peaking in high school? Not me.
“Hope you’re ready to cheat,” Logan threw back, reaching into his pocket for the coins. “Because that’s the only way you’re winning.”
“Oh, no confidence when it comes to flirting, but all the confidence when it comes to games,” I exclaimed in a theatrical voice, finding my place at one end of the machine. “I see how it is.”
He put a few quarters into the machine. “I can let you win,” he said as the game came to life, air puffing out of the holes weakly at first, and then all at once. He picked up the black puck and flipped it between his fingers, eyes meeting mine over the table. “If you say please.”
A thrill raced through me, and it lifted the corners of my lips. “Dream on.”
And, fine. I sucked at air hockey. Logan hit the black puck hard, sending it racing past me far quicker than my eyes could keep up with. It clattered into the goal with an embarrassingly loud buzzer sound. Not even five seconds had passed.
The grin on Logan’s face was almost infectious. “What were you saying?” he asked, tipping his head to the side.
I gripped the air hockey striker tighter, retrieving the puck with my other hand. “You got lucky.”
And then he sank nine more goals. I was a disgrace to air hockey enthusiasts everywhere. My hand-eye coordination was abysmal for someone who had to be on the ball for cheers. I made a total of two goals while he creamed me with ten.
When the air died, and we were left staring at each other as the game pumped out tickets, I was indignant. “Double or nothing?”
When I lost the second and third rounds, we moved to the next game—Basketball Shootout.
“Do you play basketball?” I asked him as he popped more quarters into the new game. “I asked you that before.”
“Right,” Logan said, shaking his head. “And I said—”
“‘The better question would be do I play well?’” I grinned, rolling the ball between my hands. “Perfect.”
I didn’t grow up playing basketball—actually, the first sport I ever tried out for was cheering—but the basket wasn’t too far from where we stood. When the timer dinged, signaling us to start, I sank a basket immediately. And then another. And another.
Logan put too much strength into each of his throws, which caused the basketballs to ricochet harshly against the backboard.
I laughed. “Ohh, you suck at this!”
When the scoreboard ticked down with five seconds left, and Logan was nearly fifteen baskets behind, he resorted to reaching over and slapping down every one of my throws.
“Hey!” I gasped, but my outrage was immediately swallowed by our laughter. “Who’s the cheater now?”