“Like going to bar trivia when I barely drink and don’t watch sports or follow pop culture,” I say.
“Fucking sports questions,” mutters the white friend with the bangs.
The blond who shook my hand for too long pets her head.
“I already subscribed to the SportsCenter newsletter so we can study for next time,” she says, soothingly.
“We’ll make flashcards,” says the black friend with the necklace.
“Nerds,” says the first girl, lovingly, then looks over at Thalia. “Are you going to introduce us to your new hot flirt partner or do we all have to do awkward handshakes?”
“My handshake was fine,” mutters the blond one.
“Right, sorry,” says Thalia, standing up a little straighter.
The movement pushes her breasts out, against her tank top, and as hard as I try not to notice, I do. I think I notice every single movement she makes, like I’m tuned to her frequency.
“Harper, Victoria, and Margaret,” she says, pointing to the blond white girl, the black girl with the necklace, and the white girl with the bangs. “This is Caleb Spacecraft.”
“Pleasure, Mr. Spacecraft,” says Victoria.
“That’s his middle name, dumbass,” whispers Harper. “We just established that.”
“No, the pleasure is all mine,” I insist, matching Victoria’s tone.
“Thank you,” says Harper, and curtsies.
Thalia and I look at each other, her lips quirking again like she’s trying not to laugh.
“You never did answer me,” I tell her.
“Certainly not, and I’m offended you even asked,” she says, folding her arms in front of her.
It catches me completely off-guard, and I hesitate for a moment.
“All right,” I say, nodding. “Well, it’s been —”
“That was a really bad joke! Sorry,” she says, unfurling her arms and stepping toward me, then stopping. “Shit. I’m sorry, it was funnier in my head but it was just awkward in person, which happens kind of a lot.”
Fuck it, I’m charmed. There’s something about this girl, sweet and prickly and guileless and clever all at once. She’s beautiful. She’s unexpected. She’s interesting.
“And also, I forgot the question,” she admits, her voice softer now.
“I wouldn’t want to offend you,” I tease.
“I’m harder to offend than you might think.”
“Then asking you on this date probably doesn’t move the needle,” I say, moving another step toward her.
“Oh! Yes,” she says, and laughs. “I mean, no, it doesn’t offend me. I thought I already answered you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Go on the date,” one of her friends stage-whispers, and both of us turn our heads at the same time.
I’d forgotten we had an audience, even though they’re standing a couple of feet away. If they could, I think they’d be munching popcorn.
“I’m going!” she hisses back. “I just said yes, chill out.”
“Woohoo!”
“Atta girl.”
Victoria just grins and gives Thalia a thumbs-up.
Thalia turns back to me.
“I’m sorry about my comrades,” she says.* * *Thalia’s watching a glowing purple flower as it moves up the trellis. The paper blossom is tentative, hesitant, its petals slowly unfurling under the power of the heat lamp above, the light inside it pulsing in answer as it climbs upward.
“How is this working?” she whispers, her eyes still glued to the art, her face glowing with the violet of the flower’s inner light and the re-orange of the heat lamp above, striking her like a low desert sun.
She’s entranced by the flower, one hand halfway extended and then halted, fingertips touching lightly, lips parted, her whole body paused like she wants to touch it and knows she can’t.
I’m entranced by her, by her rapture, by the way her face moves as she looks over the art like she’s asking for its secrets. If I were that flower, I’d tell her. How could I do anything else?
I step closer to her, bend low, like we’re conspiring.
“There’s a sealed pocket of air inside each flower,” I say. Her hair smells sharp and sweet, citrus and rose. “They rise when the heat lamp goes on, lower when it’s off. The lamp rotates, so they eventually all wind through the trellis. They’re kinda like mini hot air balloons.”
I’m pretty sure it’s more complicated, but that’s the gist of it.
“That’s it?” she breathes.
“That’s the basic premise,” I say, forcing myself to straighten up.
I want to touch her. I want to run my hands through her hair, want to put my hand on her back, want to bend down and kiss her full lips and all this want makes me feel like I’m going mad because I’ve known this girl for all of two hours.
It’s lust. I know full well that it’s lust. What else could it be?
“Do you know that because you cheated and read the plaque?” she asks, still watching the flowers, now sinking, heads turning downward, long woven stems resting against the trellis as they fall in slow motion.
“Reading the plaque isn’t cheating,” I say. “That’s what it’s there for.”
“Too much information can take the wonder out of a thing, though,” she says, her face still dreamy, her eyes still wide and captivated by the flowers, her hair falling over one cheekbone.