Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

Dean nods. “And it would help reduce the carbon footprint of the wedding.”

“We all have to do our part,” Garrett tells us solemnly, like he’s been possessed by Al Gore.

Violet’s eyes dart back and forth between my brother and his best friend—like she’s the deer and they’re the headlights. Her voice is breathy and high-pitched as she tries, “I . . . uh . . . well . . . ”

In order to be good at my job—and I’m very, very good at my job—I sometimes need to assess a patient’s status based on body language alone. If they’re in pain, and if so, how much pain. They can’t always tell me, so I have to read it on their faces.

Violet is unguarded, charmingly honest. Everything she feels is always right there on the surface.

At the moment her expression is awash in hesitation—swirling with uncertainty, doubt. Not because she seems particularly opposed to Garrett’s suggestion . . . but because she doesn’t know if I am.

And not knowing if a guy is willing to take you out after it’s already been suggested in front of him comes with a hefty heaping of awkward. Ask anyone who’s ever been set up by their no-longer-gives-a-shit grandma or their meddling Aunt Jean.

Embarrassment spreads across Violet’s face like strawberry jam, painting her pretty cheeks a shameful pink.

And that really doesn’t work for me.

Because Violet is awesome and beautiful—and she doesn’t deserve to be embarrassed about anything. Ever.

So I sack up.

“I think it’s a great idea.”

She turns my way sharply, lips parted in shock and awe.

“You do?”

When my eyes meet hers, it’s like the air particles slow down around us. Insulating us from the cling and clang of the cafeteria, and it’s just us in this quiet, secluded moment together.

“Yeah, I do.”

I can sense Garrett and Dean watching us with rapt attention from across the table.

“I would love to give you a ride, Violet.”

And the moment is broken.

Dean snorts, his shoulders jerking. My brother coughs, smothering a laugh.

Because they just can’t help themselves. They’re surrounded by adolescents all day, so at least half their brains still function at a teenage boy level.

And if I’m being honest, I might not be much better.

Because when I try to fix it, I end up saying, “I would love to give you a ride, in my car.”

And now a litany of X-rated Dr. Seuss lines are rolling through my head.

On a train, on a plane, in a box, beside a stuffed fox—I would ride Violet here or there I would ride her anywhere.

I ball my napkin in my fist.

“I would love to give you a ride to the wedding, Vi. I mean . . . if that’s okay with you.”

* * *

Violet

Is that okay with me?

Is that okay with me?

Is he joking?

He might as well have asked me if I’m okay with my deepest, wettest, bestest, fantasy coming to life before my eyes.

“Yeah,” I manage to reply in a slightly squeaky, but still casual tone. “I’m okay with it. That’d be . . . good.”

I can’t let go of something Callie said to me last week. About how Connor hasn’t had any luck dating. About how he’s not the kind of man who’s meant to be alone.

That he needs someone.

Why can’t that someone be me?

What if Connor did see me clearly—and he liked what he saw?

Stranger things have happened. The Pentagon announcing UFOs are real and no one caring, Kanye running for president . . . people actually liking bubble tea.

And we’re talking about a wedding here. An outdoor lakeside wedding surrounded by candles and the soft glow of string lights, and dancing and warm, fuzzy love songs.

It’s the Mount Rushmore of romance!

“Cool.” Connor smiles, deep and real.

For the first time I notice the perfect, lickable dimple on his left cheek. And my head goes so light I almost fall out of my chair.

Eating lunch after this is simply not possible. So I stand up, ready to make my way to the trash bin in the front of the square column behind me to dump my tray.

“So we’ll work out the details later?” Connor asks. “Exchange numbers and what time I’ll pick you up and all that?”

“Yeah.” I slide my chair back carefully—out of tripping range. “That sounds perfect.”

I force my voice to be steady—to not betray the all-caps-worthy elation bubbling through me because I HAVE A FREAKING DATE WITH CONNOR DANIELS!!

I’ll scream and jump around about it later, in the privacy of my own home—as decorum demands.

Right now, I need to be calm. Dignified. Alluring with a hint of mystery and sophisticated detachment. All I have to do is walk out of the room. Glide away and make a smooth, polished exit.

I can do this. I’ve been walking almost my whole life . . . I’m a pro.

“So . . .” I inch back carefully, holding my tray while keeping eye contact with him for as long as possible. Connor has great eyes. “I’ll talk to you later.”