Page 90 of The Love Playbook

“Yeah, super nice,” Chris says as he squeezes my thigh, fingers digging hotly into my flesh.

“I assume it was a boy?” Dad asks, flicking a look of concern toward me.

“I don’t know if it matters, but yeah, it was a boy, Dad.”

“Well, how well do you know thisboy?”

I shrug, ignoring the shit-eating grin on Chris’s face as he shoves a chip in his mouth and his fingers take another inch.

I hope he chokes.

“I don’t know. Fairly well, I guess,” I say, through the erratic beat of my heart.

“Just be careful. Even if you’re friends, a lot of guys don’t do favors for free. He might be thinking he’ll get something in return.”

“Like what?” I ask, playing coy.

“Like sex.”

Chris coughs, pounding his chest with his fist, blue eyes watering like the glassy surface of a swimming pool as he hacks up a lung, trying to dislodge the chip from his trachea.

My father starts to rise from his seat, but Chris removes his left hand from my thigh?thank god?motioning for my father to stay put, and that he’s fine.

A second later, he drops both hands to the table, taking huge gulps of air like a fish out of water before he clears his throat and croaks out, “Sorry, I uh . . . wrong pipe.”

“About scared the hell out of me, son. Thought I was gonna have to do the Heimlich.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Anyway,” I say, pleased with myself as I fold my arms on the table in front of me, “no worries, Dad. I’ll be extra careful with this boy to ensure he doesn’t get any funny ideas.”

“Good.” Dad rubs his palms over the front of his pants. “And maybe next time you have car trouble, just ask Chris. He might not be able to get you a new transmission for free, but he can certainly help with any repairs. From what Barb tells me, he can fix nearly anything with an engine.”

“Is that so?” I glance up at him, momentarily lost in his eyes.

“It’s true. What can I say?” He grins. “I’m pretty handy.”

“Mm-hmm. I bet.”

“You know, Charlotte could’ve had a really nice car. I bought her a brand-new Nissan Z. She drove it for a couple of months, and then said she didn’t like it. Claimed it was too hard for her to see out of since she’s vertically challenged. Gave it to her mother instead.” Dad snorts, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe it.”

I shift in my seat, feeling Chris’s eyes on the side of my face, because that’s not the version of the story I told him, and it feels weird him knowing the truth while my father believes the lie.

“What can I say? It sucks being short,” I mumble, taking a drink of my water.

“Do you remember the time I took you to Cedar Point and they wouldn’t let you on that new roller coaster?”

I groan. “No.” I shake my head. “We’re not telling that one.”

My father shifts his attention to Chris. “She was maybe seven at the time. Loved all the scary rides, and there was this brand-new coaster she was dying to go on, but she couldn’t because she was too short. We eat and go on a couple other rides before she convinces me to buy her a cotton candy, then heads to the bathroom. When she comes out, I realize the cotton candy is missing. I ask her about it, and what does say? She got hungry while she was peeing and ate it all. Meanwhile, I glance down to her shoes and there’s pink fluff sticking outside the tops of her sneakers.”

“Wait. Did you . . .” Chris turns to me.

“Stuff the cotton candy into my shoes?” I ask, my tone slightly defensive. “Yes, and I still think it was a brilliant idea.”

I remember that day quite clearly. My father had taken me to Cedar Point for a birthday after Mom was supposed to throw me a party but “couldn’t.”

“So, what happened?” Chris smiles, turning to my father.

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