Summer’s up in no time, punching the sky, hooting and hollering.
The Jumbotron pans the crowd, capturing a raucous audience cheering. When it swings to us, the words “Best Kiss Ever?” blast across the screen.
And in seconds, the whole section is pointing at us.
Summer blinks, her face flushing pink.
She looks at me. I look at her. We look at the screen.
And the words “America’s Best Boyfriend” flash across it.
I don’t know if one of us goes first, or if we both just realize we have to.
I cup her cheek. She slides a hand around my waist. And we kiss not only for the camera, but for the entire arena. Twenty thousand fans cheer us on as I seal my lips to hers, kissing Summer for the fourth time.
And for the fourth time, tearing myself away from her seems impossible because I don’t want to stop kissing her.
Only this time, it’s because I know she likes it.
Judging from the way she slides closer, from how she skims her hands up my shirt, from the way she murmurs, we both like it more than we should.
In fact, when we finally break the kiss, our section is seated, play has resumed, and the Jumbotron screen is showing the game again.
I have no idea how long we were kissing.
Only that I didn’t want it to end.
And I know, too, that we’re going to have to sort out what the hell is going on—sooner rather than later.
When the game ends, her phone trills loudly, and after she answers it and listens, she shrieks in excitement.
25
Summer
Things I never expected to happen in Madison Square Garden.
Getting a phone call from a dating site.
Getting a phone call from a dating site asking me to be part of a feature.
Getting a phone call from a dating site asking me to be part of a feature that the magazine is willing to pay me for.
It would cover the rest of the financing I need for the gym, I mentally figure when the woman on the other end of the line tells me how much I’ll receive if I can deliver a bang-up piece.
“So, would you want to do it?” she asks.
Oliver is watching me with expectant big eyes, gesturing for me to hurry up and tell him what it is.
I cover the phone. “The Dating Pool asked me to do a profile on Top Five Best Dates in New York. They want us to go on them,” I whisper. “Do you say yes?”
“Yes.”
* * *
At Gin Joint with Fitz, we toast.
“To another win,” I offer.
Fitz clinks his glass to mine. “To the best fake engagement ever.”
Oliver taps his glass too. “To the money for Summer to fund her dream.”
Then we drink and chat, and this moment almost seems too good to be true.
Like this is a fragile bubble of happy news, great friends, and possibilities. Stella even texts that she’s nearby after a baking class and comes to join in.
She flops down next to us, giving Fitz a kiss on the cheek, then Oliver, then a hug for me. She’s a toucher, and always has been.
“Henry’s at a conference, so I’m all by my lonesome,” she announces, then orders a gin cocktail. “I debated going home and bingeing Schitt’s Creek, but I decided I like you guys better.”
“How lucky for us,” Oliver deadpans. “We’re better than TV.”
“Dude, have you seen Schitt’s Creek?” Fitz asks. “That’s one helluva compliment.”
I nod savagely. “That’s a compliment of the highest order.” I point to my friends, sweeping a circle around them. “Trust me, if it’s between you guys and that show, I’m picking the show.”
“You’re not wrong,” Fitz says.
“You’re definitely not wrong,” Stella adds, then returns to the topic of The Dating Pool phone call. “So, what’s the first step in being this poster child of adorable couples?”
“They want us to do very New York photo-shoot things. Eat cupcakes, stroll through the park, all that jazz,” I tell her, and the four of us discuss date options as we work our way through a round of drinks.
“Just make sure to look pretty for the cameras when you snap all the shots,” Stella says.
“Don’t I always?” Oliver asks, adopting an Instagram-ready duck face.
“Yes, you’re so lovely,” Fitz says. He drifts off in thought for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then returns to Oliver and me. “I was just thinking though—what happens when this ends?”
Oliver nearly spits out his drink. “What do you mean?”
Fitz laughs, then his mirth subsides. He peers at us like we’re a science experiment as he strokes his beard. “You’ve thought about that, right? You have to have a game plan?”
Oliver gulps. “Sure . . .”
But the word goes on forever, and Stella shakes her head and laughs. “You guys need a plan.”
“An exit strategy,” Fitz adds.
“My cousin Christian said the same thing,” Oliver adds.
