“Foster, I don’t think you’re an alien, but I’m starting to think that you might be blind.”
Foster squinted at the can. “They seriously look the same. They’re both white powders.”
Sabine sighed. “Not that. But yes, you can use baking powder instead of baking soda. The texture might be a little different but—” she sighed again. “God, girl, now you’ve got me talking about cookies.” Yet another sigh, this one far more annoyed sounding than the first two. “You do realize that he’s cute, right?”
Foster set the baking powder next to the bowl and closed the cabinet. “Who?”
“Who?” Sabine’s eyebrows practically rocketed into her hairline. “Tate! That’s who.”
Tate? Foster thought, tearing open the corner of the bag of chocolate chips. No way. He was goofy and tall and sort of reminded her of Clark Kent, who just happened to be the boy-next-door version of her favorite superhero of all time, what with his dark hair and strong bone structure and Midwestern ness—oh my god. She crammed a handful of chocolate into her mouth. “I guess,” she said, around the melting sugary mass.
“You guess?”
Foster swallowed. “Yes, Polly, I guess.”
Sabine blinked up at her.
“She’s a parrot,” Foster offered.
Sabine’s perfectly manicured brow wrinkled. “Now that’s one bird Finn does not own.”
“No, because you keep repeating me,” Foster sighed. “Never mind. My point is that I guess I noticed that maybe Tate is a little on the cute side.”
If a little cute means that last night I might have accidentally on purpose positioned myself to see him come out of the bathroom right after he finished showering, then yes, he’s definitely a little cute. Her cheeks heated with the memory of his muscular wet torso, towel-clad waist, and that silly, smiley wave he’d given her while blushing himself.
But Foster kept that part to herself. After all, it was only that one time.
Sabine snorted.
“What?” Foster tensed, afraid that she might have admitted aloud her vaguely pervy, stalker-like behavior.
It was just the one time! she practically shouted at herself.
“You know that boy is fine.” Foster opened her mouth to object, but Sabine held up her slender, perfectly manicured finger, shushing Foster until she’d finished. “And I can tell you know how fine he is,” she continued with a tilt of her head. “Because, right now, your cheeks are as red as your hair.”
Foster clapped her hands over her traitorous cheeks. “They are not!” she exclaimed, trying to keep from spilling chocolate chips all over the floor.
“You are lying.” The last word came out more in song than statement.
“Am not.” Foster poured another mound of chocolate into her hand before dumping it into her mouth. At this rate, her cookies would just be batter.
“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.”
Foster sank into the chair opposite Sabine. If she was being honest, Foster spent quite a bit of time thinking about Tate and his stupid, gorgeous face and how nice he was even when she was being horrible. She’d even sighed aloud on more than one occasion when she’d innocently, accidentally, in no way on purpose stared at him while he was out shirtless in the pasture. “Apparently I can’t lie to myself, either.”
“I knew it,” Sabine said with a clap. “I just knew it!”
“Wait. You set me up? You didn’t actually know how I felt about Tate. You were fishing.”
Sabine held up her hands. “Before you spin off into one of your defensive, ‘I don’t need anybody I can do this by myself’ tantrum things, I have a plan.”
“I don’t have tantrums.”
“I have heard many a story.” Arching her brow, Sabine blinked slowly. “Self-reflection isn’t really your thing, is it?”
“Shut up!” Foster exclaimed in a burst of laughter.
“So, you want to hear my idea?”
Foster nodded listlessly before eyeing the opened bag of chocolates and wishing she’d never put them down.
“There’s this place, Bella Farms, just down the main street from here, and every Friday night they have dancing and food and general jubilance.” Her pointed fingernails clicked against the table in an unidentifiable rhythm. “And today happens to be Friday, so we should go.”
Click, click.
“All of us.”
Click, click. Click, click, click.
“On a double date.”
Click. Click, click.
“Ask Tate to go with you.”
“Ask Tate to go out with me? On a date?”
“A double date. That way you can more easily explore this uncharted territory.”
Easy? Nothing about going on a date sounded easy. Foster had only been on one. With Ronald Watson at space camp when she was fifteen, and, yes, it was absolutely as horrible as it sounded. It was at that same camp with that same boy that she’d lost her virginity. And yes, that was also as horrible as it sounded.
Foster cringed.
“A date?” She felt like her stomach was dangerously close to falling out of her butt. “We … we can’t go out tonight.”
“Oh, because you have to wake up so early to get to class. Or is it work, maybe? The two of you are so busy with all of your extracurriculars it’s hard to keep your schedules straight.”
Defeated, Foster leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “You know, this is why I usually don’t have any friends.”
Sabine resumed twirling her braids. “You’re welcome.”
* * *
Foster was ready. She’d even done her hair. Okay, that was a lie. She’d sprayed a considerable amount (half a bottle) of dry shampoo into her hair before brushing it. But she was wearing a clean, she paused to sniff the armpits of her top, yes, a clean flannel over the sunflower yellow cotton dress she’d found shoved into the back of her closet.
“Wear something that shows your legs and isn’t frayed or torn or wrinkled.” Sabine had paused on the porch with further instructions before leaving to collect Finn and force him to shower before their impromptu double date.