Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,70

again.

Hugging the notebook to my chest, I run to the door and fling it open.

A supercute Thai boy stands on the stoop. But it’s not the boy I was kissing last night.

Instead, it’s Taran.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I gape. Am I dreaming? Why is he here? There’s no way Taran’s my date this morning. Maybe, by coincidence, he just happened to show up at the same time that we’re expecting Mat.

Taran steps over the threshold, offering me a bouquet of flowers. They’re gorgeous, bright blooms of yellows, purples, and pinks. I must really be in shock if I’m only now noticing this gift.

“Hi, Winnie.” He flashes his dimple. “You look nice today.”

I don’t, not by his standards. My jeans are ripped, while his are freshly pressed. My hair’s up in a ponytail, and I know—from painful firsthand experience—that he prefers it down. But my head’s spinning so much that I accept both the flowers and the compliment.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m your new boyfriend,” he says, his cheeks a dull brick. “That is, I’m the person you’re practice dating.”

I turn very slowly to Mama. She’s risen from the sofa, her hands clasped in front of her. She studies me. Not Taran but me.

“Mama?” My voice echoes against the vaulted ceilings. “Is this true?”

Shaking herself, she walks forward, takes the flowers from me, and begins to arrange them in a vase. “Yes.”

“What about Mat?”

She shrugs. “He’s no longer interested.”

“Like hell,” I blurt, although I never curse—or even speak without respect—around my parents. “He was interested last night—” I cut myself off, realizing my mistake.

Mama’s lips tighten, but she doesn’t comment on my admission. “Mat’s taught you everything he can. It’s time for you to date someone new.”

She knows. The awareness is in the rigidity of her spine, the betrayal in her voice. I’m not sure how. But someway, somehow, she knows about the kiss from last night.

Or, if I’m being honest, kisses, plural. Not just in our corner booth at Lowcountry but also walking to the car. Up against the car. Inside the car. Once I gave in to temptation, it was impossible to resist him. My willpower was a sandcastle constantly swept away by an onslaught of waves. I didn’t stand a chance.

I skim my fingers along the speckled notebook, attempting nonchalance. But inside, I’m trembling, cracking, falling apart. A puff of air would knock me off my feet. What was I thinking? Lowcountry is my uncle’s restaurant. He may not have been present, but he had eyes everywhere, in the form of his servers, the hostess, the bartender. I doubt Uncle Pan asked them to spy—that’s not his style. But all it would’ve taken was one stray comment to him about the lovebirds…and a subsequent phone call to my mother.

“Mama,” I say as calmly as possible. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

“We’ll talk later,” she interrupts. “Believe me, we have a lot to discuss.” She shifts her gaze from me to Taran. “For now, your date is waiting. Go on. Go eat some pastrami sandwiches. Just…maybe not like the movie.”

…

I poke at my Reuben sandwich. The rye bread balances on top of thinly sliced corned beef, piles of sauerkraut, and slathers of Russian dressing. No Swiss cheese, because I’m not a fan. Any other week, this might be the perfect Sunday brunch.

The deli looks remarkably like the movie set of When Harry Met Sally. Are all delis more or less the same? The long metal counters lined with swivel stools, the flashing neon signs that spell out words, even the delicious smells of rich meats and fresh bread that saturate the air and our clothes.

I half-heartedly pick up my sandwich and take a bite. I managed to slip into the bathroom before we left for the deli, in order to send Mat an SOS text. I can’t remember the exact words I used. Something along the lines of: “Help! Mama found out about our kissing!! Now she’s sending me on a date with Taran!!!” But I do remember the effusive exclamation points.

He hasn’t responded. Either he’s still sleeping…or he’s not very happy with me.

I cram another piece of corned beef into my mouth, even though I’m the opposite of hungry. I need this date to be over, like, five minutes ago. Should I fake food poisoning? Nah, don’t want to give these yummy sandwiches a bad name. Maybe just a stomachache? I’m not up to a fake orgasm, but if I find a way to incorporate lots of screaming