Page 87 of What I Like About You

Nash laughs. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?”

“What?” I ask.

“Well, I don’t want to be here. You seem to be having second thoughts. Why are we here?”

“Second thoughts?” I say, feeling my face get hot. “This wasn’t my idea.”

“What?”

“Molly said …” My voice trails off because suddenly, it clicks. “Oh my God.”

It clicks for Nash too. “She told me—”

“—that I wanted to go with you?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

We have been totally, completely, duped by Molly Jacobson. This is all an elaborate setup orchestrated by Molly to—what, exactly? Help Nash realize whatever feelings he thinks he has for Kels can’t be real?

Kels. Thinking about her sends my thoughts spiraling and oh my God, the gym is too hot. My dress is too tight; the lace sleeves scratch against my skin. My hair is too curly; my lips are too red. Everything is too much. Too Kels.

Nash never wanted to go to the dance with me, Halle.

“Ugh.Molly.” Nash runs his hands through his hair. “Not that this is terrible or anything, I just don’t do dances.”

“Me either. Okay, yeah, let’s go,” I say.

I text Ollie that Nash and I are heading out and to text me if he needs a ride home.

Ollie

I’ll be fine. TELL HIM.

7:45 PM

I slip my phone into my purse and Nash and I exit out the back door before Molly notices we’re gone. We run to his Prius like this is a prison break, like we’re moments away from getting caught and dragged back into the hell that is a school-sponsored party.

In the car, I ask Nash where we’re going.

“It’s a surprise,” he says.

We drive to the tunes of our car karaoke choices and I have no idea where we’re going, but it’s okay if it means I’m no longer suffocating in a high school gymnasium.

An hour later, I’m sipping the best chai latte I’ve ever tasted.

Nash brings me to the Main Street Café, his favorite coffee shop in downtown Westport. It’s a fusion between coffee shop, bar, and live music. The bar stretches along the entirety of the back wall, displaying a variety of sandwich and pastry options.Dark wood tables fill the space, each with their own display of succulents as the centerpiece. Nash and I sit at one of these tables, with a perfect view of the corner stage. It’s open mic night, and on the stage currently is a woman with dyed red hair, singing what I am convinced is the entirety of Alanis Morissette’sJagged Little Pillalbum.

I keep my hands wrapped around my mug, the heat warming my cold fingers.

“This is so good,” I say.

Nash sips on his flat white.

“Yeah, this place is great. I came here a lot during my ‘musician’ phase.”

“Oh? Tell me more,” I say. Kels knows nothing about a musician phase. Nothing.

Nash laughs. “Not much to tell. I’m a self-taught mediocre guitar player, and Kat, the manager, was nice enough to let me play at open mic, so I’d take the bus in on weekends when my parents thought I was getting lessons. I sing decent enough to offset my terrible guitar technique.”

I nod to the stage. “So you brought me here to show off your skills. I see.”

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