Chapter 10 #2
“I think I’ll get the Caesar salad with salmon,” I say.
“Some things never change.” He sounds sad.
I frown.
I know I don’t know our dynamic like I know my favorite Italian food lunch order, but our vibe feels off-kilter to me. Tense, even.
Is he upset with me?
“You okay over there?”
He untwists the silverware roll, mouth straight as a hyphen.
“Jet lag?” I try.
With a shake of his napkin, like a magician, he settles deeper into his chair. Several more moments pass.
“I just . . .” He scratches his handsome head. “I wonder if we’re ever going to talk about what happened.” He waves a hand between us over the table. “The night before I left. For Miami.”
I stiffen.
Oh, boy.
What happened?
I crush my eyes shut, begging for a flash of memory, to no avail. I only remember the Gatsby night. I’ve lost an entire two years.
Yet here I am, his best friend.
I clear my throat. “Huh.” More silence. “Well, maybe it would be helpful . . .” So helpful, you have no idea. “If you told me what you think? From . . . your perspective?”
I bare my teeth in a grimace, shooting for irresistible.
“You’re really going to make me spell it out?” He scratches his neck, looking peeved. “Geez, Sutton.”
Resistible.
Cool.
Going well.
“We talk every single day,” he continues.
“Every audition, I’m here to encourage you.
We have a lunch date every single week. I don’t .
. . do that with my other friends. I helped you book the commercial that changed everything.
” His voice lowers. “I’ve even offered you money, so you don’t have to keep working in that black cavity you call a restaurant. ”
I’m frozen. I’m stuck. I’m still as the giant Christmas tree. Is this all true? What kind of actual heap has this Sutton climbed onto? I’m not crazy about what I’m hearing. Am I wasting this dreamboat’s time? Even worse, am I taking advantage?
And hold up.
Am I a waitress?
“Parker, I—”
He holds up a palm. “I want . . . to finish saying a few things. If that’s okay with you.”
I swallow.
I nod.
He licks his full lips. “I’ve just . . .
never had a kiss like that. I literally can’t stop thinking about it.
And it—” He pulls on his chin, that million-dollar chin.
“To be honest, it hurts that you seem to have quite easily stopped thinking about it completely.” He snaps his fingers. “Like that.”
Oh, Parker, you sweet handsome thing. How can I forget something I can’t remember?
It’s what I want to say.
And for the sake of this moment, I try.
I try really hard to remember.
When did we share a kiss? Where?
Come on, body, tell me what happened.
My couch, maybe? Quinn gone?
I look at his hands, hands that evidently care for me a great deal, that care to type texts of encouragement and drive to meet me every Wednesday.
Maybe we were watching Netflix—on DVD, of course. Maybe we cuddle sometimes. Maybe he grabbed my hand. Maybe I turned to kiss his cheek. Maybe he turned back, just in time, cupping my neck, pulling me into him, grazing my lips with his for the first time, electrifying—
“You two ready to order?” chirps a peppy brunette in a white collared blouse, pen poised on top of her pad.
“Yes,” I interject gratefully.
I tell her my order.
“Penne pesto with chicken, please,” Parker says. “Thank you so much.” He’s X-factor kind to her with his tone. Clearly such a good guy.
I cough. “Well, I wouldn’t say I stopped thinking about it, per se.” I just never thought about it in the first place. “What . . . was it about the kiss? That made it so . . . memorable for you?”
He grips his water glass, seemingly wounded, my question suspended in the air for a lengthy minute.
“I think just the fact . . . that . . . it was you.” He looks to the sky. “Finally, you.”
My eyes bulge under my black goggles, for which I am newly appreciative.
I don’t even know what to say.
“That’s incredibly sweet,” I offer, sucked into this tornado of flattery, friendship, or fantasy, maybe all three—all while finding myself weirdly protective over this Parker.
“I actually did a lot of thinking the past few weeks,” he continues.
Great.
He’s not finished.
“Oh . . . did you?” I squeak.
Add anxiety to the cyclone.
“I’ll still drive you to your callback on Friday—I’m so proud of you, and I know how nervous you are, but—”
I hinge forward.
Callback?
There is so much unfolding right now.
“I think I need some space.” He reaches across his body, massaging one brawny shoulder. “I don’t know if I can stay this close to you without . . .” He sighs. “Without wanting more. Without it being hard. I’m sorry.”
A pitcher appears, refreshing my water glass.
I cannot gulp it down fast enough. I want to tell him It’s okay, I get it—but is it okay?
Why hasn’t Young Me given Parker a chance, let him all the way in?
I don’t want to betray her, but I’m perplexed.
My body feels the attraction. Guys like this don’t drop across the table from girls every day. Every decade!
Maybe I can course-correct for myself. Tell him how much I loved the kiss too. That it’s just been so new and wild for me to process us crossing that line. But then, what about Reid? He might not be known by this version of Sutton, but I sense him holding me back.
I hear myself expend a loud breath, heavy with mixed desire and disorientation.
“It’s okay,” I say, gaze down like a coward. “I get it.”