Chapter Sixteen
Tristan
Monday was meatloaf night at home, assuming Mom wasn’t doing late rounds. Dad would be teaching a graduate class, which meant Tristan would be on the hook for eating a double helping. Not. Happening. Just as he was thinking about texting Dylan to go out for dinner, Dylan beat him to it.
Tristan ran home long enough to put on some jeans and a shirt with actual sleeves, because his favorite server wouldn’t enjoy sweaty workout clothes in her section, and he didn’t want his Snap’s visitation rules revoked. When he ran back downstairs, the smell coming from the kitchen—a cross between burnt rubber, ketchup past its expiration date, and onions…lots of onions—convinced him sneaking out for dinner was the right answer.
Which was confirmed as he hurried to the front door. Mom called, “Um, Tristan? I know you’re going out. Bring me back a salad, would you?”
Biting back a laugh, he said, “Sure thing. I’ll even remember dressing on the side.”
There was a relieved sigh, and he bounced out the door, shaking his head and chuckling. His mother could do a quadruple bypass in less than five hours, but meatloaf was not her area. He appreciated the effort but wished she would give it up in favor of those fancy prepackaged meal-delivery service things with instructions that said, “Combine this, bake for twenty minutes. The end.”
On the way to meet Dylan, he tried to think of a way to keep the topic off Alyssa. He hated to lie, but it was for the best. Dylan had once let things go so badly during a game with McKinney that he’d loaded the bases on the first three batters, then gave up a grand slam, all because he’d gotten a D on a calculus exam. He was so Type A, everything had to be chill for him to perform. Finding out his best friend was betraying him with the girl he liked would spell an end to their playoffs…and Tristan’s poor batting wouldn’t be the cause. He’d still be at fault, though, and he couldn’t do that to the team.
Tristan pulled into the lot next to Dylan’s car and trotted inside. Snap’s was dimly lit, allowing the twenty-four TVs playing various sports to provide most of the light. He scanned the restaurant the best he could but didn’t see a table with a guy alone. Dylan had to be here… Where was he?
“Hey! Over here!”
Tristan’s head whipped left, back to a section he’d already looked at, and he realized why he hadn’t spotted Dylan. A cute blonde was sitting at the table with him. A little flare of hope flickered to life inside Tristan’s chest—maybe Dylan was already over Alyssa.
Nodding, he made his way to the table, dodging a server with a tray full of burgers. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize we’d have company.” He smiled at the girl as he took a seat. “I’m Tristan.”
She smiled, showing off even, white teeth. Now that was a smile to launch a thousand guys for sure. Dylan had done well.
Then she said, in a soft, throaty purr, “Hi, Tristan… I’m Lauren.”
Tristan blinked, then looked at Dylan. Was this a setup? Goddamn it. “Nice to, uh, nice to meet you. So…if I’m a third wheel, I don’t mind bouncing. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Lauren laughed. Her laugh was completely opposite from Alyssa’s. When Alyssa laughed, you felt it. She wasn’t afraid to let it burst right out. Lauren laughed like Marilyn Monroe—breathy and with an invitation attached. “You aren’t intruding. Actually, Dylan and I have a class together, and we were working on some things. Right, Dylan?”
Dylan nodded, a smirk on his face. “Yep. Oh, and Lauren’s Alyssa’s best friend. Remember me telling you about Alyssa?”
God, did he ever. “Yeah, I do.”
He was saved from having to ask what the hell was going on because Kathy appeared at his right elbow. “Well, well, my boys are hosting a friend.” She pointed her pen at them. “Use your utensils tonight.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “We aren’t that bad.”
“Hmm.” Kathy shrugged. “What can I get you?”
Tristan and Dylan ordered burgers—if Tristan was going to be trapped in an ambush, he was going to eat something—and Lauren ordered a salad with no dressing.
“None?” Kathy frowned. “A dry salad?”
Lauren flashed her killer smile. “I’m watching my figure. I’m a dancer.”
“If you say so.”
Tristan choked back a laugh. The suspicious tone in Kathy’s voice matched what he was feeling. He was sorry to see her go, to lose that buffer. He sipped his Coke and tried not to squirm as Lauren watched him with a predatory stare.
“So, Tristan,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows. “You’re an outfielder?”
Lauren had chosen her pose with care—her breasts strained at her T-shirt, an outspoken bid for attention. Tristan kept his eyes firmly on hers. “Yes.”
“Wow. So, what do outfielders do?” She batted her eyelashes. “I want to learn more about baseball.”
Tristan almost groaned. Was she serious? “I catch long drives. Have to run around a lot. That kind of thing.”
“Sounds interesting. I was thinking of going to your game against Allen. My friend Alyssa will come with me.” She shot Dylan a coy smile, and he winked back.
What, did they think he was totally fooled by this show? “I hope you enjoy the game.”
And that’s how it went for the next fifteen minutes. Lauren would ask him a leading question, trying to make him talk, and he’d answer her in as few words as possible. Dylan picked up the conversation a lot, sounding more and more frustrated by the lack of progress.
Finally, Kathy brought their food, and Tristan stuffed his face to keep his mouth full. Lauren gave him a puzzled look over her rabbit-food dinner but didn’t try to draw him out anymore. He had a feeling this wasn’t over, though. Alyssa’s bestie struck him as a very, very determined girl. He could see what Alyssa meant about letting Lauren get her way. That would be a requirement for a friendship with Lauren…and probably for boyfriends, too.
No, thank you.
When the check came, Dylan picked it up, looking a little sheepish. “My turn to pay.”
Yeah, Dylan owed him for sure. Lauren didn’t offer to help cover hers, and Tristan ground his teeth. How was Alyssa patient enough to be this girl’s friend? If you looked up either “spoiled” or “entitled” in the dictionary, Lauren would be there, smiling back at you.
He needed to get out of here, so he’d have to order Mom a salad somewhere else. A salad with dressing, even if it was on the side. Lauren was classically pretty, long and lean, but Tristan wasn’t fooled by the packaging. And that whole dry-salad thing was just for show.
“Thanks, man,” he said to Dylan. “I need to run. Mom’s expecting me to bring her a salad from Sprout’s.”
Dylan gave him the first real smile of the night. “Did Meatloaf Monday experience failure?”
Tristan nodded. “Epic. Thanks for dinner.” He gave Lauren a passing glance. “Nice to meet you.”
Then he turned his back on them and walked out without looking back.