Page 61 of Love Me Not
Who went on a date without an escape plan? Especially a first date.
“I’m not saying I’ll definitely leave early. I just feel better knowing I can if I want to.” Doing a half spin in front of the mirror, I second guessed the boots. “Maybe I should skip the boots and wear slip-ons instead. I look like I’m trying too hard.”
“No, no, keep the boots.”
Before I could argue, someone rang my doorbell. “Hold on,” I said, “someone’s here.”
“Is it Trey?” she asked.
Walking through the kitchen, phone in hand, I checked the time on the microwave. “Shouldn’t be. I said dinner at six at DeBlaze. It’s five thirty and this is not the restaurant.”
“What if it is? Please tell me you cleaned.”
“Why would I clean when he isn’t coming to my house?”
To be fair, I probably wouldn’t have cleaned either way. The girls made a big deal about my sloppy habits, but my apartment wasn’t dirty, as in food on the floor or mold growing in the fridge. It was lived in. There were a few dishes in the sink, shoes scattered about, sweaters and jackets and mail and magazines covering any and all available surfaces.
But it wasn’t dirty.
“I’m sure it’s Mrs. Whipple.” I lived in a triplex with Marjorie Whipple on one side and Denver Montana on the other. “They keep giving her my mail.”
As a teacher, I’d encountered my fair share of crazy kid names, but Denver Montana was too good not to have a story behind it. So I asked him once where it came from. His bushy white brows met above his ski-slope nose as he looked at me as if I’d asked the dumbest question in the world. I still didn’t know the answer.
“I hope you’re right,” Becca murmured as I reached the door.
Pulling it open, I did not find Mrs. Whipple on the other side. “Hi?”
A deep blue sweater fit Trey’s body like it was tailored to his impressive bulk, while the loose-fitting jeans settled over black loafers. He managed to look both casual and dressed up at the same time, and I realized I’d never seen him in jeans before.
“Hey,” Trey said.
“Is that Trey?” Becca asked, panicking through the phone. “Oh my, God. Don’t let him in!”
“Is that Becca?”
“You have me on speaker phone? What the?—”
I ended the call and slipped the phone into my back pocket. “What are you doing here?”
“We have a date, right?” he asked, pretending I didn’t just hang up on my best friend.
“Yeah, but I said six at the restaurant. So why are you here?”
He turned to look behind him, then turned back, eyes narrowed in confusion. “You told me to park here, at your apartment.”
So far we recalled the same conversation. “I did.”
“I parked and now I’m here.”
“But we’re meeting at the restaurant.”
His bald head tilted to one side like a Golden Retriever in human form. “You expected me to park at your house, but we would walk to the restaurant separately?”
I did expect that, but now that he said it out loud, the idea sounded completely ridiculous. “Well, since you’re here, we might as well walk together. I just need to get my coat.”
The dilemma. Did I let him into the mess, or did I make him stay out in the hall? He should probably know now that my less-than-sparkling personality wasn’t my only shortcoming.
“You can come in.” To make space for him, I shoved a pile of shoes off to one side with my foot. “I’ll be right back.”