I MIGHT be able to do it, Toby. You don’t know.
I just need a screwdriver, right?
I’ve seen enough movies that I’m pretty sure I could figure it out.
ME
Um, figure it out on McQueen first
BRI
Can you video chat later? We need explanations
PALMER
Seconded
TOBY
ME
Yes, DEFINITELY. I’ll text you guys soon.
I had just set my phone down on the kitchen counter when the doorbell rang. I smiled, wondering if it was Palmer. She’d sometimes drop by when she didn’t think I was texting back fast enough. I was headed toward the foyer when I heard the door open on its squeaky hinges and realized my dad must have beaten me there.
“Andie?” my dad called, and I increased my pace, suddenly hoping that Bri hadn’t gone ahead and tried to hot-wire my car.
“Is it Palmer?” I asked as I rounded the corner.
“Your—um—friend is here,” my dad called, and I stopped short. Clark was standing there, carrying a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers and what looked like a CD.
“Hi,” I said, confused, trying to figure out what he was doing there, until it hit me all at once. We were supposed to have a date tonight. We were supposed to have a date now. With everything that had happened today, I had totally forgotten. “Oh,” I said, then stopped when I realized I had no idea what to say after that.
“It’s nice to see you again, sir,” Clark said, holding out his hand to my dad, sounding nervous, talking much faster than he usually did. “I was just reading up on the education initiative you spearheaded last year. It sounded fascinating.”
My dad’s eyebrows went up. “Were you really?”
“I surely was,” Clark said, and I could clearly tell how much preparation he’d done—which was making me feel even worse that I had forgotten our date.
“Well,” my dad said, raising an eyebrow at Clark. “That’s impressive. We’ll have to discuss it in depth sometime.”
Clark smiled, but I noticed he had turned a shade paler. I shot my dad a quick look, and he nodded. “I’ll give you guys a minute,” he said, heading back toward the kitchen—but not closing the door all the way, I noticed.
I looked at Clark, who was wearing another button-down shirt, green this time, and I could still see the comb tracks in his hair. I looked down at myself—I was wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt, nothing hugely offensive, but not what I would ever wear on a date. “So,” I said, taking a step nearer to him. As I did, I remembered this morning, the gentle way he’d brushed my hair back, how close together we’d been. I blinked and made myself focus on the present moment and how much I’d managed to mess it up. “Okay. Here’s the thing. Today’s been kind of crazy.”
Clark nodded, but his eyes traveled to my bare feet, and I saw his smile falter. He looked down at the flowers he was holding, and I saw some of the happiness in his expression fade, replaced by embarrassment. “Oh,” he said. “Did you not want to—”
“No,” I said immediately. “It’s just . . .” I tried, very quickly, to think of the best way to spin this, then gave up and realized I should probably go with the truth. “It turns out I sort of didn’t tell my dad I wasn’t coming home last night.”
Clark’s eyebrows flew up. “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing back toward the kitchen. “So I’m kind of grounded.” I was embarrassed even to say it. Even though he was only two years older than me, Clark was basically an adult—living on his own, with the freedom to do whatever he wanted. Nobody was grounding him or telling him what to do. This must have seemed beyond juvenile to him. “I’m really sorry about this.”
Clark shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said, giving me a smile. “I mean, I’m disappointed, but I understand. We’ll do it another time. When you’re not grounded. When will that be?”
I felt relief spread through me—until he’d said it, I hadn’t realized how much I’d been preparing myself to hear him say something polite but vague, which I would have known meant we wouldn’t be having another date. “A week,” I said with a shrug, like this was nothing. “Not so long.”
Clark glanced down at the flowers in his hand, then held them out to me. “These are for you. Sorry if it’s totally cliché to bring them.”
I looked down into the bouquet, and it was a moment before I could answer him. “No,” I said. A guy had never brought me flowers before—unless it was my prom corsage, which I didn’t think counted, since I’d had to order it myself and give explicit instructions for where and when to pick it up. These were beautiful—all purples and pinks and the occasional daisy. “I mean, it’s . . . really nice.” I looked down into the flowers for one moment more, not wanting him to see just how touched I was by them.