“Thank goodness,” I say in something like a groan, which makes cat-man give me some serious side-eye as he’s stuffing his furry friend back into his duffel bag. Also, who lets someone into a theater with a duffel bag? Teenagers should not be ticket-stub rippers.
I’m so tired I just want to rush home and dive under my covers, but I’m afraid that somehow Ryan will know I’ve turned in early, so I force myself to sit here until the last name rolls across the screen and the lights come on. A group of teenagers comes in with brooms, laughing about something until they spot me sitting alone in the dead center of the theater like a horror movie that’s come to life. Their smiles drop, and they all clear their throats as if they’re afraid I’m going to tattle on them for laughing.
But then, when they get closer (because I’m still sitting here) their smiles crack again—this time at my expense.
“Nice sweatshirt, Grandma,” says the one with fake bleached blond hair, snickering as he makes his way down my aisle to sweep.
I’m the mature one, though, and don’t have to stoop to his childish level. I don’t have to, but obviously I do, because that little weasel needs to learn some manners. There are at least ten popcorn kernels left at the bottom of the bucket, so I make frightening eye contact with the little rugrat before I dump the bucket over onto the floor. “Oops,” I say with a dainty shrug.
I’m feeling pretty good about my epic burn on that high schooler as I make my way from my seat to the aisle—up until I trip on my own feet and accidentally slosh the rest of my Coke onto the front of my shirt. The teenager eyes me with a gloaty face and I can’t help but feel I’ve brought this on myself. Fine, lesson learned. Next time I take the high road.
Despite the soda drenching my shirt, tonight was a success. I had a peaceful evening in comfy clothes, AND I still get to win my war with Ryan. Would I rather have been curled up in that theater holding his hand? Yes. But under no circumstances must he learn that information.
—
I pull into my driveway and finally pull out my phone to send Ryan a taunting text about how great a kisser my date is, when I notice a light coming through my living room window. A light that I specifically remember turning off before I left.
I jerk my eyes to the street, and that’s when I notice what I didn’t notice before. RYAN’S CAR. What in the hell is he doing here? But I don’t have to think too long about that. He’s moving his chess piece across the board is what. I have got to get that spare key back from him.
I puff out a sigh and get out of my car, crouching down and shutting the door softly before creeping around the house. I stay as low to the ground as possible to avoid the windows because I have no other choice. I can’t just walk through that front door and laugh it off. Ha ha, you win again, Ryan! I took myself to the movies, and some teenagers made fun of me!
No. Half in love with this man or not, I have to crush him. Which is why I’m going around to the back door and unlocking it without making a sound. I’m Tom Cruise right now, picking a lock and ninja rolling as quiet as air through my kitchen (actually, I’m slithering like a snake because I have no idea how to ninja roll).
I make it through the kitchen, and the sound of the TV grows louder as I approach the living room. This part is going to be tricky. The hallway from my kitchen to my bedroom has a straight shot into the living room. The couch is in the middle of the living room facing the opposite way of the hallway. If I can just stay quiet and move slowly, I’ll be able to get into my bedroom without Ryan knowing I’m here.
You might be wondering what I plan to do after I make it to my room. Answer: what any other desperate human being would do. Change into my sexiest black dress, apply way too much makeup, slither back out the door, and then go around the house to make a grand entrance. I’ll probably smear my makeup a bit just to really sell the whole kissing thing.
It takes me five minutes to inchworm my way through the kitchen, and I don’t even want to think about all the nastiness I’m collecting on my sticky shirt along the way. Worth it, though.
I’m now approaching the challenge zone. If I make it through this obstacle, I win a new car.
The glow of the TV illuminates the room, and I’m close enough now that I can see Ryan’s profile on the couch. He’s hunkered down, nice and comfy on my couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table. I choose not to think about how good he looks there. How I wouldn’t mind seeing him there every day for the rest of my life. No time to contemplate the future, though. I must keep my eye on the prize.
Now I’m in the red zone. Carpet burn is assailing my elbows and forearms, and I think I’ve ripped a new hole in my ancient leggings, but none of this matters, because my stealthy moves are working. Ryan is oblivious. He hasn’t so much as twitched a muscle as I continue my progress.
I make it down the hallway, and I’m two feet from my bedroom door. Ryan coughs, and I freeze. I wait until I’m 100 percent certain he is enthralled in his show again to keep slithering. And now, I’ve done it. My elbows are inside my doorframe, and my smile is stretching from earlobe to earlobe because I WIN, RYAN HENDERSON!
“Date go well?”
Dammit.
I pause mid army crawl and glance over my shoulder. Ryan hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at the TV like the villain in a movie, cloaked in darkness.
I scrunch my face up in painful defeat as I rise from the floor. “How did you know I was here?”
Ryan slowly turns his head to look at me, showing his tilted smile. “I saw your Jeep pull in. And the alarm beeped when you opened the back door. And you were breathing like you competed in a triathlon all the way down that hallway.” I feel like he could have left that last part off.
My shoulders slump, and I lean on the doorframe for support. “Super.”
“Why are you sneaking in?”
There is no way to answer that question that will not immediately incriminate me, so instead, I deflect.
Rounding the couch, I flip on the lights and then gawk at the man on my couch. “Better question, what are you doing in my living room in your pajamas?” I go over and knock Ryan’s bare feet off my coffee table because I’m angry that no one in the history of sleepy men has ever worn flannel sleep pants and a plain gray tee as good as him.
He smiles, amused by my outburst. “My hotel reservation ended at ten o’clock this morning, so I’m bunking with you tonight, roomie.”
My mouth falls open. “Umm, no, you most certainly are not! Go renew your reservation, pajama-man.”
I can’t have him here under the same roof as me for a whole night. My skin boils hot just looking at him from across the room.
“Nah, I’d rather stay here with you.”
I stare at him, blinking. “No. Just no. Your opinion doesn’t matter here.”
He scrunches his nose up and says, “Respectfully, I disagree. Mainly because I weigh twice as much as you, and you’ll never be able to lift me off this couch. So…fake your date?”
I scoff. “Of course not. I went on a date.”
His eyes drop to my outfit, and I see the faint curl of his lips. “Little black number?”
I raise my eyebrows and widen my eyes as if to say I dare you to admit this outfit is ugly! “It’s black.”
“And the stain?”
“Soda.”
He nods. “Didn’t know they serve soda at art crawls.”
“They did at this one.”
“And Hunter? Did he have a fun night?”
Who’s to say exactly what Hunter was up to tonight, but he seemed like a pretty fun-loving guy. Not the sort to sit home and sulk over a lost date. “He had a fantastic night.”
“Oh, good. ’Cause I was worried when he came by about an hour ago to pick you up that maybe you guys had your wires crossed.”
“What! Oh no!” I drop the act for the first time, worried that I accidentally stood the man up if my cancellation text didn’t go through.
I grab my phone from my purse and frantically scroll through my texts until I find the chat between me and Hunter. I read, read, read until I get to the part where I realize Ryan just tricked me, because my cancellation text absolutely went through. That scheming little turd face!
My eyes snap up to Ryan, and I’m surprised lasers don’t shoot out of them and slice him in half. I race toward him, grab an overstuffed pillow from the couch, and start pummeling him with it.
“YOU JUST MADE THAT UP!” I say, emphasizing every word in between hits.
He’s laughing and curled up in a ball like a little baby with his hands over his head. “And you just confirmed that you weren’t really on a date with Hunter!”
“YOU ARE THE WORST, AND I HATE YOU!”
