Chapter 23: : Chapter 23

“How was your date with Skeeter?” I pass Sonia an e-cig, and she takes a long toke, vapor billowing in the closet.

She grimaces. “So it was going well. We came in separate cars, you know, just in case things went south. We sat down and ordered. He was eating his chicken wings, and I was munching on my salad. I was nervous. Quiet. I needed to pee but didn’t want to get up. The restaurant was packed. And he just keeps talking and talking, probably because I’m not. Then I gulp water and get choked. It went down the wrong pipe, and the coughs just kept coming and coming.

“My face turned red. My hands flailed. My glass spilled, and my salad tumbled to the floor. Lettuce and carrots and cheese on my pants. People stared. I mean, it got quiet as a church in the Roadhouse. I grabbed my throat; then Skeeter jumped out of his seat. I’m sputtering, and my stomach is jumping from all the coughing, and I think I just might hurl—or pee—then he tries to do the Heimlich on me, and I’m gasping, trying to tell him that it’s not food lodged in my throat, just fucking water! Finally, I get free and dart for the restroom, where I pee forever and get my breath back. I stayed in there for twenty minutes, hoping he’d just leave without me, but oh no, he comes looking for me, like, knocks on the door and then comes in, and there I am, crying on the toilet! And that’s how it bloody went!”

I burst out laughing.

“I know.” She shakes her head. “I can joke now, but it was the worst first date ever. I’m sure it’s our last. He hasn’t texted, and I refuse to reach out. That man will have to come to me.”

The door flies open, revealing a tall, handsome, auburn-haired carnivore.

“You’re vaping?!” Skeeter calls out. “I told you how terrible that is for you!”

“Shut the door!” Sonia says. “I lost my lungs at the Roadhouse anyway!”

He clicks it closed, then snatches the e-cig out of her hands, holding it over her head. “These things will kill you!”

She shoots to her feet, a flush rising on her cheeks. “Meat will kill you, you big wanker!”

Skeeter glares at her, throws the e-cigarette to the ground, and then takes her in his arms and lays one on her. She hesitates, her arms bouncing; then she moans as her hands curl up around his neck—

And that’s my cue.

I slip out of the closet and shut the door.

“Hello, darling,” I say as I enter the staff lounge and sit down next to Ronan. The darling has stuck, and truthfully, I dig it. I brush my lips over his cheek.

He gives me a smile. “How was class?”

“Good.” I unwrap my sandwich. “We’re doing art or music for the poetry unit. I’m doing it along with them.”

“Which one?” He puts his hand on my knee under the table, drawing circles there.

“‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost. I’m painting a forest with a forked road. I really love it.”

“Ah, a poem about the choices we make,” he says, a hesitant look on his face. “Good one.”

“Hmm, yes.” In class I’d realized the poem was a metaphor for us. A decision from him is coming, either to stay or to go.

My fingers toy with the star around my neck. There’s no point in worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet. J ust like I told him, we’re taking it one day at a time.

So why do I feel as if something awful is coming?