Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,73

the parking lot. I come up behind Mat just as he’s arriving at the Jeep. Mataline’s still wearing her bib and brandishing her mallet from last night. The silly costume makes me feel even worse.

“Mat,” I say hesitantly, not sure what he’s angriest about. The date or the hand-holding? Maybe both. “Let me explain.”

“You don’t like PDA,” he says coolly. “Well, I don’t like public drama. If you want to talk, we’re not doing it here, where anyone can hear.”

“Fine.” I swallow my pride because I’m the one who’s in the wrong here. He just brought me my necklace. I was holding hands with another boy. “Whatever you want.”

Emotions flicker through his eyes. If we had stayed close these last few years, maybe I would’ve been able to read them. But as it is, they’re as opaque to me as the waves of Lake Michigan during a turbulent storm.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Let’s go inside my car.”

…

By the time we climb inside the Jeep, however, the momentum has been disrupted. I was desperate to talk before, but these past few seconds have blocked my throat and sealed my lips. I have so much to say that I don’t know where to start—and how.

The leather seats squeak as we settle onto them. I don’t need a ruler to measure the space between us. He’s squashed against his car door, and I’m jammed up against the other—but the distance separating us is infinite.

The harsh rays of the sun are bisected by the car’s roof, softening the light and creating an atmosphere that’s mellow, even romantic. If only the air weren’t saturated with so much tension.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

How long can we sit here without speaking? Will we be here all afternoon, changing positions in an attempt to find comfort, each ensuing squeak a substitute for our words?

I’m sorry.

Squeak.

He’s only a friend.

Squeak.

I like you, not anyone else.

Squeak, squeak. Squeak, squeak.

But these sentiments belong to me, not him, so it’s up to me to break the silence.

“You’re mad.” Maybe not my most inspired opening, but at least it’s a start.

“How would you feel if you were in my shoes?” Mat asks, his head lowered.

“Not good,” I admit. “But it’s not what you think.”

“Oh, I think the situation’s pretty clear,” he says. “I walk into a deli, and you’re on a date with another guy, holding his hand. True or false?”

“True,” I say, because there’s no denying the facts. “But you know it’s a fake date. I texted you—”

He grips the steering wheel, since it’s right in front of him. But then he slowly releases his fingers, one by one, as though reminding himself that Mataline’s not his target. “I guess your reservations about PDA don’t apply to Taran? ’Cause last I checked, a deli is a public location. You weren’t even in a booth. Or did you just not want to touch me in public?”

“That wasn’t PDA.” I struggle to find the right words. “There was nothing romantic about me holding his hand. He’s not interested in me. He said so himself. And I’m certainly not into him.”

At least, I’m not anymore. We both know that once upon a time, I was crushing on Taran. I have a jalapeño-vinegar-soaked shirt to prove it. But that was before. Before Mat and I reached our new understanding. Before we kissed.

“He told me something about…his mother.” I stumble, not wanting to betray Taran’s confidence. “I reached out, took his hand in a gesture of friendship. End of story.”

“Interesting,” he says in a tone that conveys the opposite. “Because I wanted to talk to you about my mother. Only I didn’t get the chance.”

I look up. Really? Last I heard, he hasn’t spoken to her in nearly a year. “What happened?”

“She called the house this morning, wanting to reconnect. Apparently, you told my dad that I missed her?” He moves his shoulders, managing to inject anger, disgust, and indifference into one simple gesture. “Well, I don’t need a pity phone call. So I didn’t take it.”

“Oh, Mat.” I reach out, intending to touch his shoulder, but he jerks away.

“Don’t. Don’t touch me the way you touched him. Because you feel sorry for me.”

I clasp my hands in my lap. “I feel a lot of things for you. Sorry isn’t one of them.”

He leans his head back, looking up at the car ceiling. One minute passes. And then another. “Okay, fine,” he says finally. “Let’s say I buy your explanation, that the hand-holding was nothing. Why did you agree to