Page 12 of ClickBack

We get everybody outside. Zion climbs into the back seat with his signed ball in his lap, then leans across the open window for another hug. He smells like sugar and the inside of a game room.

“Best party?” I ask.

“Top two.”

“Excuse me?”

He grins. “Best one.”

Rae promises to call later. I wave until the car turns out of the lot, then get into my own, put my bag on the passenger seat, and do nothing.

No one needs a lighter. No one is asking which child belongs to which mother. I don’t have to get the kitchen ready for anybody, and the only leftovers are in Rae’s trunk. I could go home, take off these shorts, and spend the rest of Saturday deciding whether the afternoon counted as fun.

My phone sits on top of my bag. I pick it up and open Jarrett’s name.

I type that it was nice meeting him, then read it back. It sounds like something I would send a client after a consultation. I delete it, irritated with myself. I can tell a man his books are a disaster without softening a syllable, but apparently expressing an interest in dinner requires a committee. While I’m still looking at the empty field, his message arrives beneath our exchange about the score.

Jarrett Simmons: Get your minute?

Through the windshield, I see him come out with Graves. He says something to him, then heads toward a coupe while Graves gets into a black SUV. I could answer. I could start my car. I’m considering both when the coupe pulls into the space beside mine.

Jarrett lowers his window.

I lower mine partway. “You’re still here.”

“So are you.”

“Taking my minute.”

“You want me to leave you to it?”

The SUV waits several spaces away. A family passes behind us with a balloon dragging along the pavement. I watch them until the father catches the ribbon and hands it back to his daughter.

“You can ask me whatever you came over here to ask.”

His smile is worth the lack of subtlety. “Dinner.”

“You didn’t get enough pizza?”

“You eat that pizza?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then we’ve established a need.”

I laugh. He turns off his engine and gets out. When he reaches my side, I lower the window the rest of the way. He bends, forearm resting along the top of the door, and the afternoon’s warmth seems to have collected in his skin.

“I know a place,” he says. “About half an hour out. Good food. They’ll let us eat.”

“You mean they won’t ask you to sign anything.”

“Miss Lorna might make me sign a receipt. That’s about it.”

“And what happens to my minute?”

“You tell me when it’s over.”

I look at him properly. It would be easier if he were only handsome. I know how to appreciate a handsome man and continue with my day. This one waits while I consider him, smiling a little because he knows I am, without filling the space with everything he thinks I ought to want.