Page 80 of Better Than the Movies
He kept working with the ketchup. “Why are you asking me that?”
I watched his face as he concentrated. The length of his dark lashes was totally unfair. “Because now I know it’s important. Like, not just a hobby. So… did you hit a homer? Or bunt a dinger?”
His lips turned up. “Stop it.”
“Or are you a pitcher? Did you slide a curve ball?”
“You have to stop, Buxbaum.” He gave me a good smile, and I curled my toes in my funky brown booties. “Either learn about the game, or never speak of it again.”
The waitress appeared with our food (and Helena’s in a to-go box), and we were alike in that our whole focus turned to the greasy offerings. No more small talk, no more banter. Our eyes were for food only.
“OhmyGodthisissogood.” I swallowed my first bite of burgerand reached for my soda. “God bless you for bringing me here.”
“I selfishly wanted it. You’re just collateral damage.”
“Don’t even care.” I dipped two fries and shoved them into my mouth. “All that matters is that my mouth has these delights inside it.”
“Eww.”
That made me snort. “Right?”
“Don’t be snorting while you eat. If you aspirate food, you could get a lung infection and die.”
I swallowed. “I have no idea how to respond to that statement.”
He said, “?‘Thank you so much, Wessy, for looking out for me.’Thatis a perfect response.”
I grabbed another fry. “Thank you so much, Wessy, for entertaining me with your inane conversation while we eat. This is definitely not boring.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
We got quiet while we ate, but it was a comfortable quiet. I was lost in the food until he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you eat like a man.”
“Sexist much?”
“Let me rephrase.” He cleared his throat, wiped his hands on his napkin, held up a finger, and continued with, “Society—wrongly—expects a pretty girl to eat a salad and pick at her food, but you wolf down a burger like a person who’s been starved for weeks. And probably raised by wolves.”
It was ridiculous that his usage of the word “pretty” set mynerves on edge. He thought I was pretty? “I like food. Sue me.”
He sat back a little in his chair and cracked the knuckles on his left hand. “So what’s your plan tonight? How are you going to win over Mikey if I get you a one-on-one?”
Record scratch—Wes was a knuckle-cracker, wasn’t he?
Knuckle-cracking was one of those things that I wouldn’t call a pet peeve of mine, but whenever I heard that sound, I immediately jolted into a doglike sense of alert, looking around to see where the sound was coming from. Itusuallyset me on edge.
“Well,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin before reaching for another French fry. “I’m going to give him the one-two punch. First, I’ll start by hitting him in the sentimentals, bringing back the cicada songs of his childhood with my soul-stroking reminiscing.”
“Not bad,” he said, and cracked the knuckles on his right hand. “Stroking is always a winner.”
I looked at his half smile and wondered why his knuckle-cracking seemedright.Like, it somehow went with his face or something. “You know, I think I’ll keep the rest to myself.”
“Oh, come on.” He reached out a hand and tugged at the tendril of hair by my face that stubbornly refused to straighten. “I’ll be good.”
Why did his physical nature and the way he had no problem with close contact—the hair tousles, the tugs, the nudges—always make my stomach go wild? I smacked his hand and grabbed one of his fries, saying a very calm “No, thank you.”
But inside, I was freaking the freak out. What in God’s name was happening? Knuckle-cracking was proven to bring on thaticky this-one-is-not-right-for-me feeling; italwaysdid. It was a straight-up eject button from any potential romantic relationship. But there I was, scant feet away from Wes and his knuckles, and I almost found his habit to be… endearing? Like, he kind of looked adorable when he smiled and cracked?
