Chapter 12
TWELVE
COOPER
After speed dating—besides being stuck in a loop of replaying how I almost kissed her, our lips mistakingly close, eyes pleading and speaking everything we (me) haven’t been able to say—I decided maybe a practice date would be better.
A way to ease her into light conversation, becoming comfortable with small touches.
Sutton hated the idea at first, but finally came around to it.
This is not a real date.
This is not a real date.
Repeating the mantra does little to convince me. It might not be a real date to Sutton, but it is to me. I’m above average at faking it. But this, I can’t.
Elliot lets me in. “She’s in her room.”
I snag a glass of water, exactly as I did on Thursday, then head down the hallway to her room.
“Elliot, can you come tell me if this outfit is okay?” Sutton’s voice floats from her bedroom, a nervous tick to it that makes my heart skip a beat. Is she as nervous for this as me?
This is not a real date, I forcefully tell myself again.
She’s staring at her reflection in a floor-length mirror when I peak in. “Better than okay,” I tell her, leaning against the door frame.
Eyes meet mine through the mirror, mouth pursed in a tight smile. She’s refusing to blush. The fight is in the way her hazels shift. It lasts one, two seconds. Freckled hands run down the front of the skirt, jaw clinching for a split second, and it’s obvious that she’s uncomfortable.
“It’s all Elliot’s,” she tells me. “I wanted to dress like all the other girls.”
The skirt is a color she’d wear, but far shorter and tighter. A ribbed, white, high neck tank is basic, but that’s not a word I’d ever use to describe Sutton’s style. I like the oversized leather jacket.
Does she look good? Yes, always.
Could I stare at her long, muscular legs all night? Imagine them wrapped around my waist? Without a second thought.
But she isn’t confident in her outfit which speaks volume.
I find confidence beautiful. Wearing what you want. Expressing yourself.
When she’s in her denim overalls over colorful T-shirts and sweaters, or skirts with thrifted graphic tees, completely herself, that’s when…that’s when I really can’t look away. Her aura is bright, and she commands all eyes on her.
On the bed is an assortment of clothes that I assume, recognizing some, are Elliot’s. Nothing of hers is in sight.
“You don’t need to dress like everyone else.”
“But that’s what guys want.” She sighs.
I push off the door frame and walk toward her. “Who told you that?”
“I watch it happen.”
“But no one has explicitly said you need to dress this way to be wanted?”
“No,” she mutters.
Sutton’s back brushes my chest as I step into her. I squat down, putting our heads side-by-side in the mirror. We stare at each other for a beat
“My style is weird. Whimsical,” she says the word as if it’s been used as an insult before. “Girly. Different.”
“It’s not weird. Truthfully, Dave, most guys won’t remember what you wear.
” Sutton was wearing denim shorts with a strawberry print and a white T-shirt the first time we met.
Her Velcro shoes lit up, and she was wearing white socks with a frill, as she still does today.
“But if what you wear determines your beauty or if he wants you, then he’s the wrong guy for you. ”
She sucks in a sharp inhale. “But what if I want to look beautiful?”
“You already are.” There’s my first slip up of the night. Quickly, I cover it up with a question. “Does this outfit make you feel beautiful?”
“No.” She gulps.
“You should be wearing something that you feel beautiful in. I promise it translates to everyone around you.”
“Okay.” Sutton chews on the inside of her cheek. “But—”
“Let me show you.” I stand up and head into her closet.
In my hands as I walk back out is a black slip dress with 3-D, multi-colored butterflies all over it.
Sutton spins to face me, still fidgeting with the hem of the mini skirt. “You should wear this,” I suggest.
Sutton takes the hanger from me, holding it in front of her body in the mirror.
“I love this dress.”
“I’d love to take it off of you.” There’s a second slip up. My filter must be on break because I didn’t even think twice before saying it.
“Do you think about doing that?”
This isn’t a real date.
But this…this can be good. I can admit the truth and deem it a lesson.
“Yes.”
“How often?” Neither one of us skips a beat. Eyes beating into each other through the mirror.
“More often than I should.”
Her eyes narrow as she says, “You should stop doing that.”
“I’ve tried.” Damn, I sound desperate. “Get changed, Dave, we don’t want to be late.”
Sutton reaches for the duck on my dash. Runs the tips of her fingers over it delicately, and I flick my gaze to her face. Catch a reminiscent smile before turning my eyes back to the road.
She’s been quiet after asking a million questions about what we are doing tonight, and my only response was you’ll see.
My grip is tight on the steering wheel as I pull my Jeep into the parking lot and cut the ignition. Sprinting around my car, my palm slips on the handle. I’m nervous.
“The community center?” she questions, climbing out of the car, bypassing my extended hand for help.
If I was a betting man, I’d have bet Sutton was expecting me to take her to a romantic dinner. I suppose in a way, I am, but instead of sitting down to eat, we’re making our dinner.
I mumble out an inaudible answer.
“What was that?”
“You’ll see,” I clearly enunciate.
We head to the entrance, the large poster that caught my attention the other day is still hanging up in a window.
Sutton hesitates, reading the bold letters.
If there’s one thing to know about Sutton, it’s that she loves rom-coms. There isn’t one she hasn’t seen at least a hundred times or can’t recite. Her favorite being The Princess Diaries.
The community center in downtown Bensen hosts an assortment of classes and events.
Conveniently, tonight is a themed rom-com cooking class; and they’re showing none other than The Princess Diaries.
When I was running through downtown, the flyer wrangled my attention, dragging me inside to reserve us two spots—which I had to beg for and promise tickets to our upcoming sold-out game against Yale.
“And you suggested I wear this for a cooking class?” She gestures at her dress. The socks and Mary Jane heels are the perfect ‘Sutton’ touch.
“You should absolutely be wearing this dress.” I give her a one-sided, cheeky smirk. “You look beautiful.”
Glossy lips curl inward. “You don’t look half bad yourself.” Sutton proceeds to check me out, not shy to the way her head shifts to look at my butt.
I run a hand through my hair, remind myself again that this isn’t a date and that Sutton doesn’t like me like that.
Inside, they hand us each a white apron. We help each other tie them off in the back and make our way to our stations in the industrial kitchen. A large projector screen set up in the front, the movie’s title screen already queued up.
The instructor is walking around, making sure everyone has everything they need for us to get started shortly. She explains how tonight will work, prompting us on our first step in making the dough, and we’re off while the movie starts.
Sutton is spooning the pizza sauce onto the rolled-out dough. Using the back of the metal spoon to spread it in circles. Her elbow bumps into me, and she instantly apologizes, “Sorry.”
“Lesson number four hundred five.” I’m making up numbers. “If you want the guy to know you are interested in him, touch him. Playfully, like that little bump. Or find a reason to pick something off his shirt, maybe his hair.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
She tries it, but instead of touching my hair, Sutton swipes red sauce across my cheek. “Oops.”
I stick my finger into the excess, lathering it up with sauce. I swipe it across her cheek. “Only fair.”
I pick up a napkin to clean my face, but she stops me. “Let me,” Sutton offers.
She takes the napkin and cleans my cheek, her other hand cupping my sauce-free cheek. I still so close to her. I count her freckles, see if there are any new ones.
“How was that?” she asks, dropping the napkin into the trash.
“Good.” I blink several times. “Yeah, that was smooth.”
Truthfully, I’m flying by the seat of my pants with this date because believe it or not, there isn’t a guide on how to take your childhood rival—her inaccurate term for me that I overheard her call me to Elliot once.
I’ve always enjoyed, thrived even, being competitive with her, especially after our friendship imploded.
She might see me as her rival because of it, but she could never be mine—that you secretly have a crush on, on a fake date to teach her how to date. No internet searches help either.
I’ve been on dates before, so I’m not completely clueless how to behave, but those always ended up as a means to someone’s bed.
There’s no discussion on toppings after we add cheese. We both know there’s only one option; and it’s as if the instructor knew as well.
I start to reach for the bowl of M&Ms. Sutton has the same idea, our fingers brush.
“Sorry,” we both say in unison. We reach again, fingers brushing a second time but instead of pulling our hands back like we did the first time, they linger there. A blush prickles my cheeks, mirroring Sutton’s.
I run my pinky up hers and her breath hitches. “You should add them.”
“Oh. No, that’s okay.” Her tone changes. “Actually…you should,” she tells me suspiciously. “I’d love to see what you’d put on the pizza.”
Our connection is lost, Sutton crosses her arms, leaning her left hip into the counter, diligently keeping a watchful eye.
I start with a heart. One by one, placing the chocolates in no particular order to outline the shape.
When I finish the bottom point, I peer over at her to capture her thoughts. She’s glowering at me, but there is a hint of a sparkle in her eyes as to what I’m about to put on the inside.
I move the pizza out of sight, putting my back to her. “It’s a surprise.”
Sutton lets out a huff. “I hate surprises.”
“I know,” I taunt.
Carefully, I place the candy onto the pizza. The key to making it look good is first let your pizza cool and to not press the pieces too far into the cheese. A subtle touch, not a press.
It takes me longer than I thought to write it out, but perfect timing because Michael is getting his I’m sorry pizza from Mia.
“Ready?” I spin out of the way. “Ta da.” In the middle of the heart is S + C. “You know, for you and me.”
“I get it,” she bites back. I can’t tell if she’s stifling a smile or laugh. “Couldn’t spell?”
“Nah. I’m hungry. I call dibs on eating the S.”
“Fine. I guess I’ll eat the C.”
“You can taste me any day, Dave.” She bursts out laughing, and I’m right there with her. “That was not what I meant.”
We devour our pizza, cutting it into four large slices, forcing us to fold them like tacos to eat, while the movie finishes.
“Guess what,” Sutton says, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
“You’re finally ready to admit you broke your grandma’s antique vase.”
“Never. Izzy is dating Dylan.”
I almost choke on my crust. Coughing, I pretend to be shocked. Surprised at this unfortunately not new information. Honestly shocked they’re still together. “Are you okay with that?”
“I think so. That was years ago, and I never see either of them anymore.” At her response I drop the topic and start cleaning our cooking space.
The bubble we were in the previous three hours pops as soon as I cut the ignition. Heat fiddles out, the cold air outside cools the space between us. Sutton bids me a good night, declining my offer to walk her to the door.
I stick around, watching till she’s inside and vanishes up the stairs.