I smile and nod. I can always pick the mushrooms off. Dating is about compromise, right?
“It must be tough on Lover Boy to see you with me,” Dean says, steering the conversation back to Andrew.
“I really don’t think he likes me,” I say, trying to explain it to him. “He has like ten different girlfriends a week.”
Dean chuckles and leans forward in the booth. “Yeah, I know.”
“What do you mean—you know?” I ask.
“He’s with one of them right now.” He nods, eyes focused on something behind me.
“What?” I whip around in my seat. Sure enough, Andrew is standing by the front door, speaking quietly to the hostess. And there’s a girl with him—her hand draped lightly over his arm. I can see her black nail polish from here.
It’s Danielle.
I feel my stomach drop, and I begin to cough. Wine sloshes out of my glass onto the tablecloth. What is he doing here? What is he doing with her?
He scans the room and when he catches my eye, he shrugs and raises an arm up to say hello. At least he has the decency to look a little embarrassed. The hostess waves them toward us, to a table a few feet away from ours. When Danielle notices us, she stops short.
“Keely?”
“Well, isn’t this a coincidence,” Dean says, smirking and pouring some more wine into his glass.
“Yeah, sorry,” Andrew says, bringing a hand up to his hair. “There aren’t enough restaurants in this town. I didn’t want to take Danielle to the questionable Chinese place or the dollar slices. You know.” He shrugs, as if it’s natural he and Danielle are here. Was she who he was texting back at the house?
“I remember you,” Danielle says to Dean. “James Dean, was it?”
A pleased grin spreads across his face. “Close enough. You were at that party we had?” He leans toward her. “Were you the one in all the bras?”
“You’re thinking of Ava.” Danielle smirks. “I only wear one bra at a time. But that’s personal.” She fiddles with the strap of her dress, and my eyes are drawn upward to the gold necklace resting on her collarbone, and then down to the cleavage below.
“You’re right,” Dean says, smiling and raising his arms in surrender. “I shouldn’t have asked.” He takes a sip of his wine, and Danielle’s eyes narrow.
She lowers her voice. “Wait, seriously, how did you guys get wine?”
“You can have some,” Dean says, handing Danielle his glass. She takes a quick sip and hands it back to him so fast that the stain of red lipstick on the rim is the only proof it’s happened at all.
“Maybe we should sit.” Andrew glances behind him to the podium. The hostess is looking down at her phone, texting away obliviously. “It’d be less obvious.”
He slides into the booth next to me, his leg brushing against the side of mine. I flinch at the contact and move my leg away. He reaches a hand out to the stem of my wineglass, trying to discreetly pull it toward him.
“Did I say you could have some?” I ask, swatting his hand away. I’m annoyed with him for coming here, for sitting down at our table and making himself at home.
And I don’t like him with Danielle.
“James Dean said I could have some,” Andrew says, taking a sip anyway. Danielle sits down on the other side of the booth.
“Actually, I have a water bottle in my bag,” Dean says, rummaging through the pack next to him on the booth. “You guys can pour some in under the table and drink out of this. I’ve done it a million times.”
“You’re the absolute best,” Danielle says. “Keely, hold on to this guy. Seriously.” She reaches over toward the wine bottle and, looking around to make sure no one is watching, pulls it quickly under the table. A few moments later, she brings the bottle back up, placing it innocently on the tablecloth. Just as her hands leave the bottle, our waitress walks over, and Danielle snaps her hand back, bringing it up to