Wrecked(76)

It’s the least she can do for hauling him up on that stage.

He accepts without hesitation; the dining hall will be a zoo. Simply escaping the auditorium post--Trainor took thirty minutes. Their new celebrity couple status means everyone “needs” to talk to them. MacCallum’s President Smith, for example: “You were wonderful. Thank you for that!” she enthused while the college photographer clicked away. (Great, Haley had thought, now we’re going to end up on the website. Is that the same as “Facebook--official”?) Her team mobbed her (“You do realize you’ve basically just announced to the entire campus that you’re a virgin,” Madison murmured in her ear). Even Mona joined the paparazzi. Haley and Richard were almost at the exit when poof! She materialized. Blocking them, hands on hips.

“Uh--oh,” Richard said under his breath.

“Hey, Mona,” Haley said.

Mona regarded them, squinting. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something.

“This is that oops--too--late moment when you wish everyone had had to pass through a metal detector before coming in,” Richard said.

Mona burst out laughing. “You read my mind!” She stepped in close. She wrapped Haley in a big bear hug. “Nice job up there. You’re braver than you look,” she said, releasing her. She turned to Richard and pressed one finger into his shoulder. “I’m still not convinced.”

He didn’t respond. Wise man.

“Haley’s my girl,” she continued. “Be good to her. Because I’m watching you, ass--wipe.” She gave Haley a little salute and began to walk away.

“I love you, too, Mona,” Richard called after her.

She turned. “That’s Hippie Witch. To you.”

“I think that means we’re friends now,” he said to Haley as they watched Mona leave.

The Forge is crowded for lunch on a Friday, but they manage to land a quiet table for two near the back. Only one side of the building has windows; the other side is an old flat stone blacksmith’s hearth, still streaked with black smudges from coal fires. It’s scattered with dozens of flickering tea candles, which account for most of the light in the dim room.

As the hostess leads them to their table, Haley feels the bad-assedness that fueled her performance at the assembly evaporate. Easy enough to put on a show in front of cheering fans or under stage lights, but in here? One--on--one? Where it counts? A whole different game. When they’re handed menus, she’s grateful for something to do. With her eyes. Her hands. She glances at him while he reads.

Richard’s hair is a little long and he keeps running his fingers through it, lifting it off his forehead. What color is it? Too light to be brown, not quite blond. She has this crazy impulse to touch it. To reach across the table, right now, and brush it back from his face.

If they were dating, that would be all right. Right? Is he her boyfriend? What the hell is this? Haley reminds herself to not look at his hands; she might do something stupid. She wills her eyes back to the menu.

She’s tired of wondering. About a lot of things.

“What are you thinking?” Richard asks.

She startles. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m thinking the roast chicken. But the fettuccine alfredo is supposed to be really good.”

“Thing about that is three bites into it, you’re done,” she says. “So rich.”

“Chicken,” he agrees, pushing his menu to the end of the table.

She places hers there as well. “Mushroom risotto.”

“Good choice,” he says. He sits back and just . . . looks at her. Smiles. Her stomach is doing flip--flops, but he seems very comfortable. The waitress returns, then takes their orders. He raises his water glass when she leaves.

“Since we’re only drinking water, we have to look into each other’s eyes as we toast,” Richard says. “Otherwise it’s bad luck.”

Haley picks up her glass. “I’ve never heard of that,” she says, “but okay.” They clink, then sip. Blue--green, his eyes. Not pure blue. He lays one hand, palm open, on the table before her. She places hers on top, and he wraps his fingers around. God, those hands . . .

“I feel like we have a lot to talk about,” she manages to say.

“You start.”

“Well . . . the thing we were fighting about.”

The half smile he’s worn since they walked into the restaurant fades. “You mean Jordan--and--Jenny stuff?”

“Not exactly. More like your attitude about things.”

He takes another drink. “Sure you don’t want to talk about what just happened on the stage? Might be more interesting.”

“Definitely more interesting,” she agrees. “But it’s the second thing.”

Richard sighs, resigned. Not for the first time that day. “To say you surprised me would be an understatement.”

“I sort of surprised myself.”

“Sort of?”

“Yeah,” she admits. “I tend to go for it when I see an opening. That look on Carrie’s face motivated me.”

“I didn’t know that about you,” Richard says. “It’s cool. A little intimidating, but cool.”

Neither of them speaks for a few moments. She waits for him to return to the first thing.