Page 89 of Don't Say You're Sorry

“Today?” I think about it for a minute. “Hot dogs.”

A knowing smile touches his lips.

“You?”

“Guess.” Turning his head on the seat to look at me, he sucks on the lollipop I gave him.

“Lollipops.”

Always lollipops.

I take a slow breath and stare at his mouth. “Favorite artist?”

“You.”

I chuckle. “Thanks, but I meant musical artist.”

“Sleep Token.”

“So predictable,” I tease. “Has nothing changed about you in three and a half years?”

“Did you want me to change?”

“No,” I say honestly. I love that I still know everything there is to know about him.

He smiles and turns his attention back to the screen. We’re watchingFight Clubat the drive-in. It’s his favorite movie. I’ve been wanting to ask him out all week, but I kept chickening out. When I saw they were showing this tonight, I bought the tickets, panicked at the thought of asking him to go with me, and went to Xavi. I hesitated for so long that Easton only had ten minutes to shower and get dressed before we had to leave.

I’m mostly just listening to the movie, too busy watching Easton. I’ve seen it so many times that I know what’s happening on-screen without having to look. Easton’s unknowingly muttering the words under his breath, just like he does every time we watch it.

He does a double take at me when he catches me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He pops the lollipop out of his mouth and squints at me. “You want a hot dog?”

“Yeah,” I say, climbing out of the car and falling into step with him.

At the concession stand, I grab a bag of Sour Patch Kids. I already ate the bag he bought me when we got here.

“Watermelon, huh?” he asks. “Sounpredictable.”

“What? I get bored.”

He chuckles. “I know.”

Turning, he orders me a hot dog and pays for it. We watch the movie while we wait, sharing my sweets. He’s muttering the words again.

“I can see you.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not. I think it’s cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“Whatever you say, sunshine.”

He playfully narrows his eyes and shoves me. I smirk and turn to grab my hot dog, taking the ketchup bottle off the table next to the stand.

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Since when do you eat ketchup?”

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