All the Right Moves (All The Right Moves 3)

Fucking. Blaze.

I dig deep and shoot him the nastiest glower I can conjure up, my eyes practically sealed shut from squinting at him. Running my fingers through the hair under my ball cap, I exhale slowly.

“She’s not. Abby isn’t… Ugh, we’re just. Shit,” I mutter to myself, running my fingers through my hair under my ball cap. “I mean, it’s only been a few dates.”

“And by a few, he means one. As in uno,” Blaze helpfully adds, holding up his index finger to indicate the ‘one,’ and I want to tell him to shut his fucking face. “We did, however, catch them dry hum—”

I give him a quick jab him to the ribcage. With my fist. “Dude, I swear to god…”

“Damn, bro, someone is sensitive.” He laughs as he rubs his side. My parents look on, both fascinated and confused. “But seriously. You should text Abby. Your parents would love to meet her.” He looks at my mom and winks. “Great girl, Mrs. L. She’s a peach.”

I’m seriously going to kill this kid.

My dad levels me with a stare after Mom shoots him a hopeful glance full of expectation. I’ve see this look on my mom before; she expects my dad to step in and “handle me” to get what she wants. Since I know he’ll do anything to make my mom happy, and what she wants is for me to call Abby, I’m not the least bit surprised when he demands, “Well. What are you waiting for? Go invite the girl to dinner.”

Seething, I excuse myself, dragging my heavy legs upstairs to the privacy of my bedroom and all but slamming the door behind me. It might be a simple text, but this will be our first, and I need a minute to collect myself. She doesn’t even know I have her number.

Fuck.

I hit COMPOSE on my phone and find Abby in my contacts list.

Taking a deep breath, I punch out a text, grateful that I can’t stutter or sound like a fucking idiot via text. Right?

Me: Abby, it’s Caleb. How’s it going?

A few minutes go by that have me pacing the hardwood floors the length of my bedroom, and I wonder briefly if they can hear my nervous footsteps down in the kitchen.

Probably.

Abby: It’s good! How about you?

Exclamations are a good sign, yeah? I wipe my sweaty palms on the leg of my jeans before hitting REPLY.

Me: Good.

I pause, wanting to type, Um. Shit. This is harder than I thought it would be.

Me: Good.

Dammit. I just texted her ‘Good’ twice.

Me: Listen. My pants are in town, and I was wondering… they were wondering if

Accidentally hitting SEND before finishing the sentence, I groan after realizing it autocorrected parents to pants.

I lied. Shit, you actually can sound like a douchebag moron via text. I just proved it.

Me: My PARENTS are in town, and we were wondering if you wanted to join us for an early dinner. If you’re not busy.

Me: I totally get it if you have plans. Or think it’s weird.

Shit, I scold myself, stop texting her. Jesus, Caleb, get grip.

After a few minutes go by without any kind of response, I resume my pacing, stopping to tap my fingers on the ledge of my windowsill like a fidgety crack whore.

My phone pings and my heartbeat stills.

Abby: What time?

What time? Was that a yes? Holy crap. What. Time.

Me: I can walk over and get you in a half hour? Is that enough time for you to get ready?

Me: My parents just kind of showed up and my Dad is hungry. Sorry.

Abby: No, that’s plenty of time. I went to church this morning, so all I need to do is change back out of these yoga pants. lol ;)

Me: Great. I’ll see you in a half hour then.

Abby: It’s a date.

Abby

It’s a date? It’s a date?

Ugh, why did I put that! That definitely deserves a face palm.

Groaning, I cover my eyes when my phone pings a few seconds later and peek at the screen through my fingers.

Caleb: It’s a date.

Yes!

Shrieking, I throw my phone down onto the bed like it’s just caught on fire and dance around the room, arms above my head, hair sweeping wildly around my shoulders. I feel like the girl version of Kevin Bacon in the original Footloose—you know the part where he’s dancing in the old grain mill? Yeah, that’s me right now, but in a good way, not in the pissed-off, this stupid town has outlawed music and dancing way, but in a holy crappers I’m meeting his parents way.

I pop on Spotify and dance around to the beat of “Good Girls” by Five Seconds of Summer before stopping to look at myself in the mirror, taking inventory of my reflection, breathing heavily.

Flushed cheeks, animated blue eyes. My long dark hair is still wavy from having been curled early this morning, but I’m wearing black yoga pants, and those simply won’t do.