let’s plan to meet up. I think I have a couple of theories to test.”
“Are you asking me on a second date?”
I roll my eyes, working to ignore the heat that finds its way to my cheeks. “If you don’t want help, you don’t have to meet me.”
“I wasn’t saying no. I just was going to ask if you wanted to see me in pants or shorts or if I should wear my hair up or down, you know, in case you bring me somewhere fancy.”
“This is why Rose never gave you best friend status, by the way.”
His smile is instant and so wide it shows off his teeth and dimple again. “What time do you want to meet up?
“Anytime. I don’t have work tomorrow because the fire inspector has to go by and see if there’s a potential risk for the building or others who come inside before they fix the electricity.”
Arlo blinks slowly. “Sorry about that.”
I wave his apology off like a gnat—pesky and unwanted. “Don’t apologize. Math will give us answers. There’s no way you could’ve caused that.”
“I’ll tell you what, you warm up a plate of leftover Indian food for breakfast, and I’ll let you run all the experiments on me that you want.”
I stare at him through slit eyes. “You’ll never know if I eat the leftovers, and let’s be honest, you would way rather spend time with me and my Southern awesomeness than your couch.”
He laughs. “I’ve seen you in the morning—leftovers will make your day better.”
“Ultimatums to judging, what’s next?”
“I could throw in some sexist jokes or make you feel inferior.”
“Really mess with fate, huh?”
Arlo’s grin is genuine—I know this without even knowing him, which is equal parts unnerving and comforting. So many people I meet never want to have a real conversation or discuss anything with depth or substance. Instead, conversations rely heavily on rumors and what’s happening that day.
The cat comes out of its hiding place and weaves through my legs, and then prances over to Arlo and does the same.
“I should probably get going,” he says. “I have to go to the gym in the morning, and I didn’t mean for you to get me dinner.”
“No…” I bite back the words that would admit this was nice and that I had a good time because they feel both vulnerable and like I’m flirting with him or trying to flirt with him—which I’m not.
I push my chair back as he reaches for his crutches. The cat scampers away and takes a flying leap at the couch where it clings to one of the cushions by only its claws. I cringe. The damage to be had by this cat is scary at best, costly at worst. The cat slowly releases, falling to the carpet before skittering out of sight.
“I don’t have your number,” Arlo says, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his phone.
“Oh. Yeah,” I reach forward with my phone in hand at the same time he reaches toward me and our fingers bump. There’s a little zing when our hand touch, and I know he must feel it too because it has us both pulling back quickly. “Sorry,” I say, reaching forward and plucking the phone from his hand. I stare at the screen, a picture of him with someone who I presume is his mom on the front. It’s cheesy, and I want to call him a ‘mama’s boy’ but his smile is genuine, and hers is infectious, and it makes my throat grow tight—all preventing me from saying anything. I find the address book and add my contact info while marking myself as a ‘favorite’—so he can find my number easier tomorrow, or at least that’s what I tell myself.
“Reid?” he asks, reading my last name. “You don’t have Coach’s last name?”
He knows my dad. Blink. He knows his name. Blink. This isn’t weird. Blink. It still doesn’t negate the awkwardness—in fact, I’m fairly certain it propels it.
“My parents never married. I think my mom knew even back then I’d see him mostly from the mantle of the fireplace in his annual Christmas card than I would in person. But don’t judge him. I don’t. I wouldn’t change anything.”
Arlo nods, but the conviction is missing. I smile in an attempt to dismiss the silent questions I see forming behind his eyes, ones about if I wonder what it would have been like to have had him around and if it makes me bitter that he’s a full-time dad with