He laughs, embarrassed. “Right.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll go.” I don’t want to read too much into this. Plus I feel…odd. Not like anything about his offer is untoward, it’s just that something is missing. That spark. The excitement that should accompany an invitation to have dinner with the hottest guy on campus. I’m flattered, but that’s all. Probably because it’s early, I tell myself. I’m only half awake. Maybe once I’ve eaten these waffles and had a shower, the momentousness of this occasion will sink in.
“Awesome,” he says, just as there’s a knock at the door. “I’ll make a reservation for eight.”
My heart starts beating double time, and I step into my room. “Tomorrow,” I say.
He shoots me one last smile as he jogs toward the stairs. “It’s a date.”
*
I’m supposed to work from five until closing on Friday, but when I tell Marcela and Nate I have a date with Kellan McVey, they agree to cover my shift. Coffee shops in Burnham aren’t exactly booming on Friday nights, so they’ll be okay. They tell me so half a dozen times as they sit on my bed and mull over the outfits I’m considering.
Verre Plein is a tiny French restaurant with a lengthy wine list, a pricey menu, and servers with long white aprons. It’s a far cry from mac and cheese and the fast food that’s available on campus, and my regular uniform of jeans and a T-shirt isn’t going to cut it. I rustled up a few dresses I’d buried in the back of my closet, and I have a whopping three pairs of heels—black, gold, and red—to pair them with.
“Too prim,” Nate says when I hold up a retro blue dress with a Peter Pan collar. “It’s a date with Kellan McVey, not an Amish man.”
“Hold onto that one, though,” Marcela adds, “in case you do get a date with an Amish man.”
I put it on a hanger and return it to the closet. “Here’s hoping.”
My next option is a strapless white dress with black leather straps crisscrossing the waist and black trim at the hem, which stops a good six inches above my knees.
“No,” we all say at the same time. Is it sexy as hell? Yes. Is it appropriate? Absolutely not. Am I a little bit mortified that I once—maybe seven times—wore it out in public? Er, yeah.
They quickly veto my four remaining dresses, calling them dowdy, boring, scandalous and offensive, respectively. My all or nothing problem summed up in one piddly wardrobe.
“So I’ve got heels and nothing else.” I slump on the bed beside them.
“On the bright side,” Marcela says, “that might be all you need.”
“Get him to buy you dinner first,” Nate interjects. “At least pretend to play hard to get by putting on clothes.”
I laugh. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Okay, fine,” Marcela says. “I thought it might come to this, so I brought something for you.”
She had her backpack with her when she came, but I assumed it was full of books. Now, however, she digs around until she comes out with a little black dress with tasteful lace cutouts. I know from last year’s clothing swaps that we’re the same size, so at her urging I take the dress into the bathroom, try it on, and return for their perusal.
“Yes,” Marcela announces.
“Try it with the red shoes,” Nate urges.
I do, pirouetting in front of them so quickly I have to grab the wall before I fall down.
“Gorgeous,” they say. “Perfect.”
And, looking in the full-length mirror—propped against the desk, since I can’t be bothered to hang it—I have to agree. The dress is sleeveless and stops just above my knees, so it shows plenty of skin but not so much as to be inappropriate for an upscale French restaurant. The red heels make it youthful, and when Marcela comes up and twists my hair into a loose bun, it looks pretty and romantic.
“I love it,” I say.
Nate glances at his watch, then rises. “Text us and tell us how it goes. We have to get out of here.”
“Spoilsport.” Marcela tucks another piece of hair behind my ear and nods, satisfied. “Do everything I would do,” she orders.
I grin. “Promise.”
No panties, she mouths as Nate drags her out of the room.
“Oh my God,” Nate groans. “Wear panties, Nora.”
I laugh and wave goodbye, then study my reflection some more once they’re gone. Kellan has class until seven, leaving me with a few hours to kill before our eight o’clock reservation. The dress doesn’t have a zipper so it has to come up over my head, and since I don’t want to ruin my hair, I decide to leave the dress on while I wait. I kick off the heels and grab my anthropology textbook to get in some reading.