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For the next ten minutes, I learn more about soccer stats and Nathan’s scoring record than anyone should ever have to know. He talks about himself the way people gush about their favorite celebrities—endless enthusiasm, practiced stories. Like he’s reading from a Wikipedia page he wrote himself.
“And then in the semifinals—” he swerves around a Tesla “—I had this perfect shot—” cuts off a minivan, “—right into the upper corner—” runs a yellow light that was definitely red.
I zone out. Partly a coping mechanism for his driving, partly because I’m remembering how Jaxon told stories—always including the embarrassing parts, like tripping over second after a home run. Jaxon’s never been cocky about his talent.
Not this dude behind the wheel, who’s racked up more traffic violations than I have Instagram followers.
“You okay?” he asks, noticing my grip on the handle. “You look tense.”
Yeah, my life is flashing before my eyes and it’s mostly Jaxon. “I’m good,” I squeak as he takes another corner like he’s drifting. “Just, uh, enjoying the... view?”
The view of my life insurance policy, maybe.
Somehow, we survive.
The restaurant is packed. The din of voices, clattering plates, and the sizzle from the kitchen all blend together. Steam rises from bamboo baskets, carrying the scent of ginger and garlic.Nathan drops his last name and suddenly we’re led to a private booth, skipping the hour-long line. “My dad knows the owners,” he says, winking.
Our waitress—tall, blonde, probably a senior—shows up, and Nathan’s attention shifts. His smile widens as she introduces herself as Katy. Pronounced ‘cat—eeee.’ Yes, she says it with the extra syllables.
I resist gagging into my water.
“I’ll order for us,” Nathan says, not a question, then turns to Katy. “What’s good? Besides yourself?”
I stare at my glass. How many ounces does it take to drown yourself? A glass should do it.
Katy giggles and leans down, giving Nathan a perfect view down her shirt as she points at the menu. “The har gow is amazing. Chef Lin makes them fresh every hour.”
“We’ll take those,” Nathan says, eyes firmly not on the menu. “And the shu mai, spare ribs, and…” He glances at me like I’m a piece of furniture he remembered he owns. “You’re not vegetarian or anything, right?”
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p,’ probably loud enough for the old couple nearby to jump. “I love meat.”
I can practically hear Callie in my head.If this date goes south, text me. I’ll call and pretend to be the CDC.
Not the worst plan.
Katy—or is it Ashley?—I’m losing track of Nathan’s waitress fan club. She probably thinks gluten is a personality trait.
The conversation is a slow-motion crash I can’t look away from. Nathan talks about soccer with the conviction of a conspiracy theorist—absolute certainty, zero evidence.
These sweaty bills are my lifeline. If Callie calls now and says I’ve been exposed to a rare tropical disease, I’d hug her. Metaphorically.
“Can you throw a rise ball?” he asks, like he just realized softball is a thing.
What a tool. “Yeah? It’s my strikeout pitch.”
He laughs. “Cute.”
Cute? I picture my rise ball nailing him right in that smug face. Cute, huh.
Maybe I should text Callie.Hey, remember that CDC extraction plan? Asking for a friend dying of boredom.
As he drones on about his “achievements”—and I use that word loosely—I mentally plot my escape. Fake an illness? Call Callie? Spontaneously develop teleportation skills?
Then he drops the bomb.
“So,” Nathan says between bites of dumpling, smug smile on his lips, “I heard about your breakdown at the World Series.”
Everything goes silent. Or maybe my ears are ringing.