Page 11 of Studious
He nods like he’s tired of asking me questions. I’m tired of him asking me questions. I’m tired of all of this, and I wish it were easier, but it isn’t.
We’re quiet, both of us looking around the room without saying anything. When our food comes, it’s a relief to have something to focus on, but I’m too nervous to eat more than a few spoonfuls.
After a while, he gestures at my shirt with his fork. “What does your shirt mean?”
I pick at it. “It’s aFireflyreference.”
“Firefly?” He cocks his head.
“TV show from the early 2000s. It got canceled midseason, but it had some pretty great moments. And then there was a movie…” I suppose now is not the time to get into an in-depth discussion about the finer points of the plot or any controversy surrounding people associated with the show. Or my feelings about when creators ruin things I love by behaving badly, making me feel guilty—or at least conflicted—for still loving them. Like I’ll ever be able to hash all that out with anyone who understands.
“Ah,” he says.
If this date were a test, I’d not only be failing it, I’d be failing with such a low score I’d never be able to pass the class even if I aced everything from here on out.
It dawns on me that I haven’t asked him anything at all. “What do you do, Sumner?”
He narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to ask. I can tell you’re not into me. It’s okay. Not every date is a winner.”
Ouch. “Sorry. New people make me nervous. You make me nervous because you’re way out of my league. I’m sorry my gran put you up to this.”
“It’s okay. Just because this”—he gestures between us—“isn’t going anywhere doesn’t mean the right guy isn’t out there for you. And youaredoing me a favor. Now that we’ve had a meal and it didn’t work out, I can get my great-aunt off my case and move on with my life.”
“Cool,” I say, glad to know this date will have some benefit, no matter how small. But I can’t wait to call my Lyft and go back home. Apparently, neither can he.
* * *
After my humdinger of a lunch date, I open the door to my house as quietly as I can, but my mom still calls out in her thin voice, “Alden?”
It makes my heart hurt. I set down my phone on the hall table, but it falls to the floor, so I pick it up again. I go to her bedroom and bend to kiss her cheek. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”
She smiles. “Pretty good today. How did your date go?”
“It was fine,” I hedge.
Mom gives me a look. It’s amazing how fierce she is, despite cancer ravaging her insides. The prognosis is positive, and I’m so grateful for that. Her counts are good, and the tumors are shrinking. But seeing her this way—thin, in a wig, and nauseated—is awful. Chemo can go take a long walk off a short pier.
“The date wasokay,” I correct. “Actually, it was pretty bad. I was my usual awkward self, and by the end, we agreed that we would never ever see each other again or speak of it to another person.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“It was worse. I get around strangers, and I can’t even say my own name.”
“And yet around me you’re as chatty as a windup doll.”
“Well, it’s easy with you. I know you, and you don’t expect me to be someone I’m not.”
“Honey, no one else expects that, either.”
“It’s still easier to stick with people I know. Family. Mason. It’s hard to get to know someone else.”
“You can do it.” She sighs. “I just want you to be happy.”
“What if I’m happy as I am?”
I’m not. I want more friends, although Mason’s great. I’d love to not be so awkward with men. I’d like to havesomeexperience in the bedroom, since I have, oh, none at all.
But it’s not like wishes come true.
