Chapter 14
fourteen
Saturday afternoon came faster than I wanted it to. Luckily, my whole family was out—Sebastian and Lavender out on dates, Ainsley at Clementine’s, and Mum working a weekend shift—so I didn’t have to explain to anyone why I was dressed up and waiting by the window, watching cars drive by.
Mitch arrived twenty minutes late and didn’t bother coming up to knock on the front door. He didn’t even text me to say he’d pulled up—I just had to assume it was him when a sleek black sports car pulled into my driveway and idled there.
As I walked up to the car, I could see him watching me through the windshield, but he didn’t get out to greet me.
I waited a beat, just in case he might actually get out of the car and open my door.
He didn’t. Instead, he leaned across the console and shoved the passenger door open from the inside, nearly hitting me with it since I was standing right there.
I took hold of it and pulled it open the rest of the way, trying not to wince.
Maybe it was old-fashioned to expect him to get out of the car, but it felt like a low bar for a first impression—especially when he hadn’t even bothered to come up to the front door.
As I climbed in, he grinned at me like he’d done something impressive. “Chivalry’s not dead.”
“Uh-huh,” I responded, not even looking at him as I buckled my seatbelt.
It’ll be such a relief to get this over with, tell Hilary I did it to get her off my back, and never agree to see him again.
I just needed to get through the next hour.
Hopefully I’d even be home before the sun set so I could enjoy the rest of my weekend.
Mitch looked pleased with himself as he backed out of the driveway, one hand reaching back to the top of my seat while he twisted to check the road.
It was the kind of move I usually found attractive, but on him it just made something in my stomach turn.
I couldn’t stop noticing his slicked-back hair every time I looked at him, the way it barely moved.
I didn’t understand how anyone could think that much gel was a good idea.
Once we were on the road, the silence stretched.
I twisted my bracelet around my wrist and let my attention drift to the car instead—the softly glowing dashboard, the polished ivory surfaces, the cloudy sky.
He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel like he was already restless, which felt almost impressive considering how hard he’d pushed to make this happen.
“So,” he said as we hit a red light, “I’m glad you texted me. After Thursday…” He paused. “Well, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“You mean after I watched you run off like a scared little boy after Cole threatened you?”
He sniffed. “I did not run off.”
“I mean, you kind of did.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well, I went somewhere with better service.” Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added, half under his breath, “I was a paying customer. You’d think he’d show a little respect.
Honestly, people in the service industry sometimes…
” He shook his head. “Some people just don’t belong there. ”
I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. The way he said it—so casual, so certain—made my stomach twist. I should have let it go. I should have changed the subject. Instead, I heard myself say, “Did you actually buy anything?”
He looked at me like I’d asked something ridiculous. “What?”
“You said you were a paying customer,” I said. “But you didn’t have a drink. So… were you?”
For a second he just looked confused. Then his expression hardened. “Are you defending him?”
“Well—”
“He said I was making you uncomfortable. Me. Making someone uncomfortable.” He scoffed, as if he had absolutely no idea just how uncomfortable he made both me and my twin.
But before I could remind him of that, he let out a deep sigh then pasted on a smile, almost like he was pulling a mask in place.
“Anyway,” he said, “I just didn’t think you’d actually text me back.”
“Yeah,” I said, staring straight ahead. “Me neither.”
He missed my tone entirely. “But hey, I respect it. Not a lot of girls would admit when they were wrong.”
I’d never had the urge to slap somebody quite as strongly as I did in that moment. “I didn’t say that.”
He smiled like I was being playful. “You’re funny.”
“I’m really not,” I said flatly.
Once again, he missed the tone.
The rest of the drive was filled with Mitch talking at me.
Not to me—at me. Lacrosse season. How his coach was kind of an idiot but also a genius.
How annoying it was when people assumed he had everything handed to him.
How his dad worked really hard, actually, which somehow justified the fact that Mitch didn’t need a job.
I nodded when it seemed socially required and counted red lights.
It didn’t occur to me to ask where we were going until we pulled into a parking spot and I realized we were in front of a frozen yogurt place.
“It’s November,” I said. Then I glanced at the date on my phone. “Actually, it’s almost December.”
“Two days,” he said, grinning. “You want fro-yo?”
Normally, I wasn’t anti-ice cream in the winter, but as I stared at the cheerful sign on the door, all I could think about was Hilary standing in the kitchen, watching me scoop ice cream from the freezer while she told me this was good for me.
That didn’t feel like a great omen. Not that there had been many good signs for a date I didn’t want to be on.
I must have been staring for a while, because Mitch had time to jog around the car and reach the front door of the shop before I even got out.
Once again, it didn’t seem to occur to him that he could have opened my door—or even waited.
Neither counted in his favor, but at this point, I was just waiting for the date to be over.
I climbed out of the car and followed him, shivering in the cold. Frozen yogurt wouldn’t have been my first choice for a first date at the end of November, but at least it would be quicker than dinner and a movie, like he’d originally suggested. He held the door open wide and gestured inside.
“After you,” he said.
I probably should have thanked him, but I was still annoyed about the car thing, so I walked past him without comment.
The place was surprisingly busy for such a cold Saturday—families bundled in coats, a couple of people our age sitting at tables, cups of frozen yogurt in front of them like this was completely normal behavior for late November.
Mitch put a hand to my lower back as we walked in, and I struggled not to shove him off me. I figured he’d have to put it down once we reached the cups anyway, so there was no use making trouble.
“So,” he said, as we grabbed cups, “should we share one?” He wiggled his brows.
I tried not to cringe. “Oh, um, well, I like really unusual flavors,” I said, hoping that that was a neutral enough answer that would tell him that no, absolutely, we should not share one.
“Oh, that’s okay,” he said, grabbing one cup despite my words. “I’ll convert you over to my side.”
I stared at him, sure that he was joking, but then he walked off to choose a fro-yo flavor without even consulting me. So clearly that wasn’t going to happen. I sighed. “Okay,” I muttered under my breath and trailed after him. The less time I spend fighting, the sooner this date would be over.
He walked straight over to the vanilla dispenser, which I personally felt was the most boring flavor you could possibly get, especially somewhere with such interesting flavors, but he didn’t ask my opinion before he pulled the handle and filled the cup to the top. Then we walked over to the toppings.
“You can get as many as you want,” he said. “I have my dad’s card, so it’s okay.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked at the toppings—trays of colorful sprinkles and gummy bears and crushed nuts. The options felt endless, almost overwhelming if I’m being honest.
I would have had a lot of fun here if I’d come with Ainsley.
We would have been running around giggling, trying every single thing that didn’t mix with each other at all.
I vowed to come back here with her and try all the flavors Mitch walked past, all the toppings I was sure he was going to veto.
Maybe Ainsley and I could come back on our birthday in a few weeks to celebrate.
But for now I needed to focus on the bad date at hand, so I pointed to the mini chocolate chips. “How about those? That’ll work with vanilla.”
He made a face. “Kind of boring.”
I raised my brows. “Did you really just call me boring on a first date?”
Once again, he completely missed my tone.
As he moved towards the mix-ins and said, “Come on, live a little.” Then he went through, grabbing a little bit of every single topping on display—from fresh fruit to peanut butter to candy bars— and started pouring it into the ice cream.
Everything, I noticed, besides mini chocolate chips.
I tried not to cringe at the combination.
It didn’t matter anyway. I wasn’t going to eat any of this as soon as he double-dipped his spoon.
He paid, of course, card flashing, then nodded at the cashier like they’d just shared a moment.
I grabbed us two spoons, green for him, pink for me, and we moved over to a booth by the window.
I waited for him to sit down, and then sat across from him, worried that if I gave him the choice, he would try to sit down with me.
I was glad that I did a moment later, as he sprawled out across his side of the booth, arm draped across the empty back of the seat, as if he was trying to make a sign to me that I was supposed to sit there so he could put his arm around me.
I stayed where I was, suddenly grateful for the extra space.
“So,” he said, grinning, “first official date.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.