Page 28 of Damián

The mere thought sends shivers down my spine and fills my stomach with hundreds of butterflies.

“I guess nerves would make sense if he were the first guy I actually wanted to commit to.”

She grins. “Now that is a perfect plan.”

— ¤ —

I should’ve said no, but it is too late for that now…

I should be back home; instead, I am standing in front of a grocery store in the middle of Brooklyn, clutching two sweating plastic cups, one salted caramel frappe, and my usual cold brew.

I look like a complete idiot.

Parked a safe distance behind me is a black SUV. I don’t even have to look to know Silvio and Franco are inside, watching my every move so they can snitch to Rafael.

Oh, God… I hope they don’t snitch about how dumb I look.

“This is stupid,” I grumble to myself.

The condensation from the cups is making my palms slick, and I’m way too nervous. No… the word is unsure.

I am unsure of telling him about the boyfriend thing, and when I get nervous and unsure, my brain does what my brain does best… Overthink the fuck out of this situation.

Was getting him a frappe the right choice?

Do people who are dating actually do this, or am I being too extra? How extra is extra? And why is it called extra? Isn’t extra something good? Don’t we all want a little extra of everything?

Oh, God… Shut up, Oliver.

I look at my reflection in the grocery store’s glass door. I spent forty minutes trying to make my hair look “effortlessly messy,” but now I just think I look like a Twilight vampire.

My heart is racing again, the exact same way it did when Damián’s mouth was hovering an inch from mine.

Ugh…. Why am I here? I could have sent him a message…

No, that’s stupid. I can’t leave a digital trail.

I could have waited for him to contact me… but then I wouldn’t get to see him.

I shudder.

Oh, my God… I wouldn’t get to see him again? Who are you, Oliver? I ask myself, completely disgusted by this new, cringey version of me.

No, abort mission.

Backtrack now, and let’s get the hell out of here.

I spin around, fully ready to get into my black Escalade and pretend this entire morning never happened, when the shop door jingles open.

“Oliver?”

Crap.

I turn slowly and see Damián standing there with a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. He’s wearing baggy grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt that clings to his shoulders, and wow… Who knew zero effort could look that unfairly good?

“Frappe surprise,” I offer… my voice is a pitch higher than I’d like, but at least I manage to force a smile.

He smiles back, amused. “Is that a thing?”