Is this a date? I can’t tell. I think it might be a date. We went to the batting cages and now we’re going to get something to eat. So we must be on a date. I mean, think about it. If someone said to you, “Hey, you wanna go to the batting cages and then maybe go out and get something to eat?” you’d think that was a date. Wouldn’t you?
And yeah, Penn didn’t exactly call me up and ask me if I wanted to do that stuff, it kind of just happened. But still.
“Where are we going to eat?” I ask. I haven’t had anything since lunch, but I don’t feel hungry. In fact, my stomach is filled with butterflies, and they’re swarming around and making me feel jittery. I’m thinking about how his hands brushed against my skin, and it’s making me all flushed.
Penn looks at me. “I don’t like restaurants.”
“Oh.” I’m not really sure what to say to that. How come he asked me out to eat if he doesn’t like restaurants? I glance at him suspiciously. He better not think this is going to be one of those things where he pretends he’s taking me out to eat and then he takes me somewhere else and tries to get me to make out with him. I don’t make out with people on first dates. Not that I’ve had that many first dates. Or that many make-out sessions.
He doesn’t say anything, but he’s pulled the car out onto the main road, and he’s heading in the opposite direction from my house and the dance studio.
“So then where are we going?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It stopped raining. We can eat at the park.”
“You mean like a picnic?” Why does he want to have a picnic in the dark? I want to ask him, but I’m afraid that if I do, he’ll take back the invitation.
He glances at me. “No, not a picnic, Harper. Just eating outside.”
I frown. “Eating outside sounds like a picnic.”
“I don’t do picnics.”
“Eating outside at a park is a picnic.” I shrug. “Just admit you like picnics, Penn. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m not embarrassed about anything.”
“Okay.”
“But it’s not a picnic.”
I pull out my phone and start to google the definition of “picnic.” “Picnic,” I recite, “an outing or occasion that involves taking packed food outdoors for a meal.”
He gapes at me. “Did you just google that?”
“That’s what Google’s for.”
“Google’s not for—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head, like he can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “Whatever. We’re not packing any food. We’re just buying it, so it’s not a picnic.”
He pulls into a Whole Foods and cuts the engine. “You stay here,” he instructs.
“How come?”
“Because I can shop faster by myself.” He looks at me. “No offense, but girls take way too long in the store. And it’s already dark.”
“First of all, that’s extremely sexist. And second of all, I don’t take a long time in the store.” It’s a lie. I take a very long time in the store. But how could Penn possibly know this?
He raises his eyebrows, like he’s considering it. Then, a second later, he shakes his head. “You stay here.” And then he’s out of the car and on his way into the store.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull out my phone and call Anna.
She picks up on the first ring.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.
“Nothing,” I say. “Why would something be wrong?”
“Because you never call me. You always text.”
“Oh. Well, I have limited time.” I flip the passenger-side visor down. But there’s no mirror on the other side. What? Why? How can a car not have a mirror on the visor? How am I supposed to make sure I don’t have dirty puddle water splashed on my face or in my hair or something?
“What do you mean you have limited time? Are you at work? I thought your mom got over that whole not-using-your-phone-during-work-hours thing?”
“She did.” I reach over to Penn’s side of the car and flip down his visor. There’s a mirror on that one. Which is ironic, since I’m the one who needs the mirror, and Penn doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who spends any time whatsoever checking himself out. Which kind of doesn’t make sense, since he’s so good-looking. I always figured anyone that hot would enjoy looking at himself all the time. Does Penn not know how cute he is? I have another flash of him walking down the hall at school, always with a different girl. So he must.
“Hello?” Anna calls. “What are you doing? What’s all the commotion?”
“I’m in Penn Mattingly’s car.” I whisper it. I don’t know why. Penn is in the store, and there’s no one in the parking lot. And even if there were, who cares if someone overhears?
“You’re where?” Anna yells, like she’s trying to make up for the fact that I’m whispering. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Speak up.”
“I’m in Penn Mattingly’s car,” I say, louder this time. The words sound foreign and kind of exciting. I’m in a boy’s car. A boy I hardly know. It sounds almost dangerous.
“Penn Mattingly’s car!” Anna sounds excited.
“Shh!” I’m trying to grab at the visor and angle it so I can see my reflection. But I’m having trouble, so I have to sling one foot over the gearshift. I pull the mirror toward me, and am grateful to see that I don’t have anything on my face. But my eye makeup is a little smudged, and so I reach up and wipe it away.
“Why do I have to shhh?” Anna asks defensively. Then I hear her say to someone in the background, “Harper’s on a date with Penn Mattingly!” She’s probably talking to Nico. Nico is Anna’s best friend besides me. Well, if you can count a boy who you’re secretly in love with as your second best friend, which Anna thinks you can.
“It’s not a date.” Trying to fix my makeup with my finger isn’t working. In fact, I’m just making it worse. I go to reach for my purse, but somehow my legs sort of splay apart, and I end up knocking my purse over onto the passenger-side floor. “Shit!”
“What happened?” Anna asks.
“I knocked my purse over.”
“In his car? How’d you knock your purse over in his car?” Suddenly she’s suspicious, like she thinks I’m up to no good.
“I was trying to look at myself in the mirror.”
“She was trying to look at herself in the mirror,” Anna reports to Nico.
“Don’t tell him that!” I say. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want Nico to know what’s going on. This is one of those times when the fact that he’s male definitely gets in the way of me being able to give him information. Plus, I’ve never been as close to Nico as Anna is. And I don’t think he should get secrets about me just because I’m telling them to Anna.
“Why not? It’s just Nico.”
“Because I don’t want him knowing everything.”
“It’s not like you and Penn are hooking up. Are you? Have you? Did you kiss him? Did he kiss you?”
“No!” I say. “It’s not . . . I mean, it’s not a date.” But suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him. He looks like he’d be a good kisser. Probably strong, but not too strong, with just the right amount of—
The driver-side door opens, and I scream in surprise, then immediately fall over into the passenger seat.
Penn is standing there. He looks down at me, my legs sprawled between the seats. He shakes his head. “Wow,” he says. “I leave you alone for one minute . . .”
“Um, I gotta go,” I say to Anna, scrambling back over to my side of the car.
“What?” she screeches. “Harper, you can’t just—”
I hang up. I’m kind of humiliated. “Can I get in now?” Penn asks. He seems amused.
“Yes,” I say haughtily. “Of course you can get in.” I put my nose up in the air and roll my eyes, like he’s being ridiculous. Which he kind of is. This is his car. Of course he can get into his own car. He doesn’t have to ask my permission.
“Okay, good,” he says. He flings the Whole Foods bags into the backseat. “Just didn’t know if you wanted to be alone.”
My face is burning. God, he must think I’m a complete and total head case. “I’m fine.” I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror, and my face is still streaked with eyeliner. I reach up and rub it off. There’s no way I can fix it with Penn here, watching, so I’ll have to just deal with having raccoon eyes for now.
“Okay.” He shrugs and puts the car into drive.
He takes me to Schoner Park and parks near the swings, right on the lawn. It’s after nine o’clock now, and so the place is deserted.
He pulls the bags of food out from the back of his car and sets them down on the hood of his truck.
“You’re going to be impressed,” he says, sounding proud of himself.
“Really? Why?”
“Well,” he says, “you probably have this impression of me. You know, that I’m just some jock ballplayer who knows nothing about anything else.”
“I don’t really have any impression of you, except for that maybe you’re a stalker.”
“A stalker?”
“Yeah, like how you showed up at my work and stalked me.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t stalk.”
“Whatever.”
We hoist ourselves onto the hood of the truck, and Penn reaches into the bags and starts laying out the food he bought. I have to say that he was right—it is impressive. Stone-ground wheat pepper crackers, cut up strawberries and honeydew, goat cheese, fig and walnut spread, and two tiny plastic containers filled with bow tie pasta salad.
He hands me a plastic fork, and as he does, his hand brushes against mine.
“Thanks.” Goose bumps fly up my skin.
“You’re welcome.” All trace of the teasing he was doing before is gone, and now he just sounds . . . I don’t know, sort of serious and sort of sexy at the same time.
I grab the crackers and start to open the box. Inside there are two sleeves, and my fingers fumble around the plastic. When I finally get them open, I realize there’s nowhere to put them, so I pull a few out and lay them down on the cracker box.
“So,” I say. The air feels heavy all of a sudden. Yes, it’s because it rained, and because it’s humid, but it’s also because things have shifted. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Before when I was with Penn, there was a lot of activity around us—we were at the dance studio, or the batting cages, or something, and now . . . now we’re just here, sitting on his car with nothing to do but . . . talk.
“So,” he replies.
I take a cracker and dip it into the goat cheese spread. It’s delicious.
“Is this where you used to play baseball?” I ask, gazing out onto the field.
I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but I feel like he stiffens beside me. “No,” he says. He takes a swig of water. “Well, not recently. I played here when I was a kid.”
“Oh. And you . . . I mean, are you going to play in college?” I know he hurt his shoulder. I know he doesn’t play anymore. I want to know if he’s going to get better, but I’m not sure exactly how to ask him that.
He shrugs, then just gazes out onto the baseball field. Then, suddenly, he jumps off the hood of the car until he’s standing in front of me. He leans in close to me and gives me a devilish smile.
“Hi,” he says, and that’s when I know he’s going to kiss me.
I hardly even know him, and he’s going to kiss me. Which is crazy. But what’s even crazier is that I want him to kiss me. I want to kiss him so bad, I can hardly take it.
He reaches up and pushes a piece of hair back from my forehead, and his eyes are gazing right into mine, and it’s so perfect and romantic and passionate that I swear it feels like I’m in a movie.
“Hi,” I breathe.
He moves his face closer to mine, and then he kisses me. His lips are cool, but his mouth is warm and his kiss is soft. It takes us less than a second to find a rhythm. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him.
A breeze ruffles the trees and sends a shiver up my spine, and I’m not sure if it’s because the air has gotten colder or because of the kiss. He pulls back for a minute, and then his lips are back on mine, teasing me. He’s kissing me the exact way I thought he would—strong and firm and perfect. His face is smooth, but there’s a little bit of stubble rubbing against my chin, and I lose all track of time as his lips move against mine. My heart is beating fast, and my skin is flushed. My lips are getting swollen from the kissing, and my hair is getting tangled in his fingers.
When he finally pulls away, he trails his fingers up my arms, sending tingles flying through my body.
“Well,” he says. “I guess that happened.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I guess it did.”