Page 90 of Love Scenes

“We could read scripts people have sent you,” I pitch. “I have a good eye. I think you’d do well with a coming-of-age thing. White girl submerged in a pool, caught up in her feelings. I can picture it already.”

“Bub. You’re seeing Joe tonight. Get over it.”

She makes a hard right that sends my hand straight for the panic handle on the passenger door. She has always been a terrible driver. Time has only made it more obvious. “I should’ve called a Lyft,” I mutter, praying for my life as we merge onto the 101.

“If you did that, you would’ve backed out completely. I know you.”

“He thinks he’s meeting Mom,” I protest. “Maybe you should come with. He’s going to be disappointed it’s me instead.”

“Yeah. And bringing your lesbian sister along on your secret surprise date won’t be the biggest letdown of all time.” She cuts one quick look my way. “You’re going.”

“Fine. But you need to stay in the parking lot for like five minutes, at least.”

“Dude, you sound like you’re in the seventh grade. I’m not paying twenty dollars to park downtown for five minutes.”

“Fuck you. Seventh grade was a hard year. You’ll understand when you direct an indie masterpiece that encapsulates it completely.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too.”

Twenty-seven minutes andfour and a half fights later, Tyler throws on her hazards and pulls over to drop me curbside. She slams her hands on the steering wheel and lets out a scream, so unexpected it makes me scream too.

“What the hell!” I say when she starts to laugh.

“You forgot you were nervous, didn’t you?”

My scowl serves as confirmation.

“Listen, if it’s really and truly a disaster, sneak into the bathroom and text me. I’ll come get you. And if it’s nothing at all, I’ll be waiting at your house when you get home. We can order a pizza and watch our version ofNewsies.It’s been too long since I’ve seen Powell do any accent work.” She smiles. “But I’m expecting a text from you that tells me I need to get the hell out and sleep at my own place tonight.”

The idea of that seems so far out of reach I don’t even dare entertain it, instead letting out my own quick scream, which does the job and shocks Tyler.

“Get out of my car and go get that handsome dummy, like they do in the movies,” she says, lightly shoving me.

So I open the door and step outside. Lean down and give her one last worried glance, hoping the blatant terror on my face convinces her to take me home this very instant.

She gives me a thumbs-up instead.

It’s happening. There is no going back.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you too,” Tyler answers, pressing a hand to her heart. Then she peels off like an eager extra in aFast and Furiousracing scene, cackling the whole way, a chorus of disgruntled honks greeting her recklessness.

The restaurant sits all the way up on the rooftop of this high-rise, requiring two separate elevator rides to access it. The first one, I stare at my outfit, green scoop-neck tank tucked into high-waisted blue jeans, a pair of faux leather brown booties boosting me up an extra four inches. It’s casual without being too casual. It says,Hey, this is an easy, nonthreatening encounter. Whatever happens, I’m relaxed. I know the green may be reminiscent of a certain dress I once wore. That was accidental. Completely a coincidence.

By the second elevator ride, I’m rubbing my wrap-gift bracelet so much it’s making my fingers hot. This is the wrong outfit. This is the wrong move. I shouldn’t have agreed to Mom’s bait-and-switch plan. I should’ve forced Tyler to come. I should’ve done all of this differently.

Then the doors open, and I’m giving my credit card to the host to let her know I’ll be paying for this meal, and she’s leading me to Joe’s table, and my nerves reach such a peak all I can thinkisWow, who invented string lights like these? What a good idea. So simple. Tiny lights on a string! Soft and effective!

Then I spot him. A few tables ahead, his back to us. He’s wearing a gray Henley, and his hair is a bit longer but back to its naturally dark blond, a color that really could be categorized as brown, except for in high sunlight, when the golden threads shine through.

Knowing he’s really here makes it easier somehow. He’s not a face on theSwipedbillboard I drive by every morning to pick up coffee. Or a voice I recall in the dark of my bedroom. My nerves flutter up and dissipate, replaced with something different: a desperate wanting, deep in the core of me, pushing me forward.

He’s scrolling through his phone when we walk up, the host announcing my presence with a loud “Here you go.”

“Surprise,” I whisper to Joe.