a book and a gift certificate to Mozart’s, a coffee shop I know she frequents. Because I’ve seen the logo on her coffee cups, not because I’ve stalked her there.
I jerk the shirt (now inside out) over my head. Of course it’s on backwards now. I do the awkward shuffle where you pull your arms in and turn it around on yourself neck.
Only, I bought the shirt a size smaller than usual. Because you’re supposed to wear this kind of shirt a little tight. And maybe I thought it might hint at my defined chest and my broad shoulders, always hidden in my suits from Zoey. She was going to see a whole new Gavin tonight.
And now she has. A shirtless, parking-lot-pervert version of me, now stuck inside of a too-tight, inside-out shirt designed for people in a totally different generation than me.
“Let me help,” Zoey says.
I’ve gone from being too old to being a toddler who needs adult help getting his clothes on.
“We’ll go pay,” Zane says, giving me a disapproving look. Abby giggles as they walk away, whispering.
I consider bolting. But as odd as Austin is, I still think I’d attract too much attention running while my arms are trapped inside a T-shirt. Like a man escaped from an asylum in a 100% organic cotton straight jacket.
Zoey tugs at the bunched shirt, which seems to grow tighter, like one of those Chinese finger torture things.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. I’m not fine. Not my shirt, not my image, and least of all, not my pride.
“You look fine,” she says, and then immediately blushes. Her face does this thing when she's embarrassed, where two distinct red spots appear in her cheeks, like her blush has been painted on. It’s adorable.
Maybe I need to look at the bright side of this. Zoey has seen my abs. Girls love abs, right? Especially the kind that come in a six- or eight-pack. (I’ve got eight, thank you very much.) She’s standing near enough that I can smell her, a combination I would label as vanilla shampoo and some kind of spicy, not-too sweet perfume. And she’s touching me. So, maybe this isn’t as much of a disaster as I thought. Honestly, I’m so relieved she’s gotten over the stilted awkwardness from today that I could leave happy now.
Just kidding. I’m not going anywhere. But I am relieved.
“How badly will it affect my mini golf game, do you think, if I can’t use my arms?”
She giggles—giggles—and it’s a sound I want to hear every single day. If I could record it, I would make it my alarm, my phone ring, and my feel-good playlist.
“How good is your game to begin with?” she asks.
“I play golf a few times a month. My short game is pretty solid.”
I realize too late that this probably is another one of those old-guy facts I could have kept under wraps. Does her dad play golf? Have we ever shared a green? Let’s hope not.
She doesn’t seem bothered by my dorky golf confession, but only hums as she manages to get my shirt spun around. “I think you’ll do better now.”
“Thank you.” Then we stand there, grinning stupidly at each other, like this really is a first date and she’s just as nervous as I am. I can work with that.
I offer her my arm, and she places her hand on the crook of my elbow as we climb the steps to meet Abby and Zane by the first hole.
“I apologize in advance,” Zoey says, just before we reach the top, distracting me from my focus on the feel of her hand on my elbow. Like she’s been doing it for years. Like we’re co-conspirators somehow. A team. A couple.
“For what? I think I’m the one who needs to apologize.”
She grins up at me. “It was a memorable start to a date.”
I’m so busy cataloguing her smile, the kind of smile I never see in the office, that I almost miss the key word there: date.
Internally, I am not fist-pumping. Because only idiots who wear graphic tees do that kind of thing.
“No, I’m apologizing for my brother.”
“Is he going to give me the third degree?”
Zane already seemed suspicious, which I can’t blame him for, considering the state of undress in which they found me. It’s also the sign of a good brother to care about the guys your sister dates. The thought of Zoey dating other guys derails my thoughts for a moment.