Sitting in the back seat of Chris’s Corolla feels wrong in so many ways. For one thing, the seats are really short and low back here. Chris, of course, has to put his driver’s seat all the way back, so I’m stuck behind Lindsay, who is sitting in my usual spot but is doing it all wrong. She keeps adjusting the heat and the music and the recline lever on her seat, and doesn’t she know everything was perfect before she came along and starting messing with it?

Chris seems not the least bit annoyed by her constant “improvements,” nor by her inane monologue on the benefits of acai juice, nor by the fact that she laughs just a little too long and too loud at his jokes, including sometimes when he’s not even joking. By the time we reach the Shack, I’m starting to wonder whether an evening with my parents wouldn’t have been the lesser of the two evils.

The hostess shows us to a booth near the back. I expect Lindsay to order a salad or perhaps the chicken fingers, but she surprises me and goes for the Alaskan crab legs. Messy. And potentially hell on her nails. As our server walks away, Lindsay turns to me. “I’m so glad you joined us, Lexi. Isn’t this place fun?” She has to shout because half the wait staff have formed a dance posse and are kicking it up to Cotton Eye Joe. The crowd cheers them on, and two little girls at the table next to us get up and show off their moves.

Crap. This has always been my favorite restaurant in the world. I just know Lindsay’s going to ruin it. I force a smile. “Love it.”

Halfway through the song, one of the little girls walks over to Chris. She can’t be more than eight years old. “Want me to show you how to do the Cotton Eye Joe?”

Girl’s got guts. And excellent taste in boys. Unfortunately, she’s about to get her heart crushed because Chris doesn’t dance, ever. Sure enough, he smiles and shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’ll just mess it up. You and your friend are really good at it, though.”

She grins. “Thanks.”

Lindsay leans forward and slaps the table. “I’ll dance with you.”

The girl’s eyes light up as she grabs Lindsay’s hand and pulls her out onto the dance floor. Lindsay, of course, doesn’t miss a step. Perhaps learning cheer routines is an underrated skill.

I turn to Chris. “Why do you think she asked me to come out to dinner with you tonight? Doesn’t it seem a little weird?”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, and all that.” What I want to say is that if he and I were dating, I most certainly would not want anyone else along. I would want him all to myself, all night long. His eyes. His lips. His arms circling me and pulling me close to him until—

I blink hard. I have to stop doing that. Not only does Chris not think of me that way, he is now seeing someone. Time to get used to it. “I find it strange; that’s all.”

Chris shrugs and glances over at Lindsay, who is giving the little girl a fist bump mid-dance turn. “Maybe it’s because she’s a nice person and would like to be friends if you’ll give her a chance.”

I look away and take a sip of my lemonade. Well, well. Five days into their relationship and Chris is already taking Lindsay’s side. Worst part is, he’s right. She’s been nothing but sweet to me all week and in fact has never been rude or unkind in the three years we’ve gone to school together. She’s mostly ignored me, but then again, I’ve ignored her, too.

Lindsay bounces back into the booth. “Wow, that was fun. Though now I’m a sweaty mess.” She has not a single drop of sweat on her, not even the slightest glistening across her forehead. Pretty sure I’m sweating more than she is from my mini-fantasy about Chris’s hug. She takes a sip of her water. “I’m going to run to the restroom. If our waiter comes by, could you ask him to bring me a cranberry juice?” And with that, she takes off again.

I’m tempted to make a crack about whether she’d prefer acai juice but think better of it. Then, because I feel bad and because I know Chris had a point about her trying to be friendly, I decide to play nice. “She’s a great dancer. And seems good with kids.”

Chris shifts in his seat but says nothing.

I take a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m glad she did ask me to come out tonight. Riding home with Mark and Bev would’ve been a nightmare. Thanks for letting me tag along.”

“First off, you’re not tagging along. You’re hanging out with us. Or we’re hanging out with you. I mean … we’re all hanging out together. And second, sorry about your parents. You know it’s only because they have an unhealthy obsession with the sport, right?”

I laugh. If anyone else dissed my parents, I’d be pissed. Well, embarrassed and pissed. But Chris is allowed. He loves them, and they love him, almost like the son they never had.

The rest of the evening isn’t horrible. Lindsay dominates the conversation with a rambling story about her stepsister who auditioned last season for a spot on “The Bachelor,” but it’s actually pretty funny. Who knew crowds of guys pooled in the parking lot in the hopes of hooking up with the contestant wannabes?

Somehow, Lindsay manages to pick apart her crab legs neatly and daintily and without a single casualty to her nails. Impressive. We’re about to ask for the check when a line of wait staff files out of the kitchen. They march past the dance floor and down the aisle, straight to our booth.

“We understand someone has a birthday today,” a tall guy shouts out to the entire restaurant. He’s staring at Chris.

Lindsay kicks me under the table and winks, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

No. She. Didn’t.

One of the waitresses holds out a huge multi-colored afro wig. Chris’s face matches the streak of pink running down the center of it. Oh, dear Lord. This should be interesting. On Chris’s eleventh birthday he about died of embarrassment because his mom made him wear one of those little birthday-hat cones while we sang to him. And that was in the privacy of his own kitchen.

Chris turns to Lindsay as he tugs the ’fro onto his head. “I’m going to kill you.”

The tall guy pulls up a chair from a nearby table. “And now, we need you to hop up here so we can sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you.”

“Tell you what,” Chris says. “I think I’m tall enough.” He gets to his feet, dwarfing everyone.

Tall Guy’s eyes widen, and he pushes the chair back. “Alright-y, then.” He looks around at the rest of the servers. “Ready?”

“Actually, I have a better idea.” One of the waitresses steps forward and holds up a microphone. “How about if Chris sings ‘Happy Birthday’ to himself?”

Oh, my. If there is one thing Chris is even less likely to do in public than dance, it’s sing. No way will he go for this. Lindsay’s joke was cute, but it’s over. Chris is going to pull out his license and prove to everyone that today is not, in fact, his birthday.

Only he doesn’t. He takes the mic, strolls down the aisle to the dance area and strikes a rock star pose. He mock head-bangs to the point that tufts of the wig start to fall off and belts out the most overly dramatic version of the birthday song ever performed. The crowd, as they say, goes wild, while I sit in stunned silence. Because first of all, the boy’s got pipes. He can sing. And second of all, what the what?

As the applause subsides, Chris hands the mic back to the waitress and returns to our booth.

“What was that?” I point to the dance floor. “Since when do you know how to sing?”

He shrugs. “I sing in the shower.”

“Okay, but …” I force myself past the visual. “Why have I never heard you before? Like, not even in the car. You’re good.”

“Oh, come on. It was ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“It was awesome.”

“Yes, it was.” Lindsay wraps one hand around his neck and pulls him toward her. “Time for your birthday kiss.”

Ugh. The kiss lasts approximately four hours, or maybe four seconds, I can’t be sure. I try to look away, but I can’t. My stomach twists, sending pangs of regret coursing through me—regret for having eaten that second crab cake, regret for coming here tonight, and most of all, regret for setting the two of them up in the first place. Why did I do that again?

Chris finally pulls away from Lindsay. His face is bright red, but he’s wearing a goofy grin, and I remind myself: That’s why. Chris is happy. And he deserves to be happy. And as his best friend, I am happy to see him happy.

He stands and grabs his coat off the hook beside our booth. “Let’s split before they decide to do the Macarena and make me join in. I was here one time when they picked on the birthday girl the entire night.”

Fine with me. Lindsay and I grab our coats and follow him out to the car. I barely notice Lindsay’s fidgeting on the way home. I’m too busy reminding myself of how happy I am.