“You guys should just rent a room upstairs for after,” Danielle says. “That’s what everyone is doing.”
“I’m game,” Dean says, a messy grin spreading across his face. “You think we should get a room?” His grip on my hand tightens slightly, and I feel unsteady, like his hand is holding me there in place.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to smile, wondering why I have to try. “We should definitely get a room.”
“Nice,” he says. “I’ll arrange everything.”
I’ll just have to tell my parents I’m sleeping over at Hannah’s or something and hope they believe me.
“Who are you going to prom with?” Andrew asks suddenly, his attention focused on Danielle. His leg brushes against mine again as he shifts in his seat, and I inch away from him.
“What?” Danielle cocks her head to the side, clearly surprised.
“Are you going to prom with anyone yet?”
“I’m going alone.” She takes a sip of the wine. “But I could be persuaded to change my mind.” Leaning toward him, she lowers her voice. “Aren’t you going with Abby Feliciano? That’s what everyone’s been saying.”
“Not yet,” he answers. “Haven’t asked anyone.”
“Is that so?” She breaks into a smile.
“You want to come with me?” he asks, leaning in to mimic her movements. I feel an unexpected lump in my throat, like I swallowed something too soon.
“C’mon, Reed. You have to try harder than that. You think I’d go with just anyone?”
He reaches over and takes her hand in both of his, cupping it between them. Then he brings it up to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on her wrist. Andrew has always been good at this. It’s making me a little sick.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Danielle Oliver. I want you to come to the prom with me.”
They stare at each other for a few seconds, and I have to look away, focus my gaze back on Dean, who’s leaning back into the booth watching them with a lazy smile on his face.
“Well, all right,” Danielle says, the corner of her mouth lifting up into a grin. “If you insist, Reed. No need to beg.”
“Cool,” he says, smiling wide.
“Cool,” she says back, her smile matching his.
Just then, the waitress comes over with our food, placing one large mushroom and pepperoni pizza down in front of me and Dean, a Caesar salad in front of Danielle, and a plate of spaghetti in front of Andrew. I look at the spaghetti longingly, at the steaming pile of sauce and the piece of garlic bread wedged onto the side of the plate, the smell of it heavenly.
When Andrew sees our pizza, his eyebrows raise.
“You got mushrooms?” He reaches over me to grab the shaker of Parmesan cheese, and I hand him a few packets of red pepper automatically. “You hate mushrooms.”
“I don’t hate mushrooms,” I say.
“You totally hate mushrooms,” Danielle says. “I’ve eaten lunch with you like five hundred times.” She leans toward Dean, bringing a hand up to her mouth as if to share a secret, though her voice is still loud and sloppy. “Collins eats like she’s five years old.”
“Hate is a strong word,” I say, pulling a slice of pizza off the tray, wincing as the hot cheese burns my fingers. “Mushrooms aren’t my favorite. But I’m not five years old.”
Dean grabs a slice and folds it in half, dipping it into some barbecue sauce and biting into it like a sandwich.
I’m sorry I didn’t ask your opinion, I want him to say. I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted.
“You can pick the mushrooms off,” he says after swallowing. “It’s no big deal.”
Maybe he’s right—I don’t want to be the girl who makes a big deal about everything, who thrives on drama, who makes everything difficult. So I shrug and take a bite of pizza, trying not to wrinkle my nose when I feel the slimy mushroom between my teeth, trying not to think about how I am willingly eating fungus.
“See?” Dean says. “They’re good, right? It takes seven full meals of something before your palate gets acquired to the taste. You just have to try more things.” He leans conspiratorially over the table. “I can be your guide.”
“They’re okay,” I say, not wanting to let him down. I do want to try new things and I want Dean to be the one who shows me how, but mushrooms will always be mushrooms.
“You’re cute when you chew, you know that? Your nose crinkles.” I bring my hand to cover my nose, embarrassed, but Dean pulls it aside. “Don’t. Your nose is perfection.”
I can’t help the small burst of pride his compliment gives me, and suddenly I don’t care about the mushrooms at all.
Beside me, Andrew clears his throat. “Should we get the check?”
“We just got our food,” I say.
“What are we doing after this?” Danielle asks, piercing her salad with her fork.
“We could all go back to my place and hang out for a while,” Dean says. “You guys want to come over? I’ll just leave the bike. We can walk from here.”
“I don’t know,” Andrew says. “It’s kind of late.”
“We should definitely go,” Danielle says.
All three of them look at me, as if waiting for me to make the decision.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess we could go for a little while.”
TWENTY-TWO
A FEW HOURS and another bottle of wine later, we’re sitting in the living room at Dean’s house, grouped around the TV, where a seriously competitive game of Mario Kart is taking place. Dean and I are on one couch with Cody, all three of us leaning forward and staring intently at the screen, trying to win. Danielle is the only one who isn’t playing. Instead she’s sprawled out next to Andrew on the love seat, her legs in his lap.
Usually I can kill it at this game, but I feel like my fingers aren’t quite connected to my brain, and I’m having a really hard time focusing on the race when I can see Danielle’s long tan legs out of the corner of my eye like some commercial for shaving cream.
The wine combined with the circular movement of the cars on the screen has made me a little dizzy.
“How’s your friend Ava?” Cody asks as his car careens off the edge of a cliff. He throws the controller on the couch and leans back, apparently giving up on the game. He looks over at Danielle. “Why didn’t she come?”