Page 204 of Worth the Trip

“That would be selfish.”

“Extremely.”

“And you’re never selfish?”

“Let’s maintain reasonable expectations.”

I laughed again.

“I think I want to apply.”

“Then apply.”

“I said think.”

“Then think.”

“You’re irritating.”

“You’re welcome.”

I opened the festival application.

For tonight, that was enough.

By Thursday evening, I had spent enough time pretending not to anticipate seven thirty that even Nyla had stopped respecting the performance.

She caught me checking the clock twice before six, then hummed somebody got a date through most of closing until I threatened to revoke her auxiliary-cord privileges. Wednesday afternoon, after one final review of staffing and transport, we had submitted the Black Excellence Community Festival application together.

Then I had refused to obsess over it.

Mostly.

I stopped for sushi after work, made it home before seven, showered, moisturized, and spent several unnecessary minutes considering clothes no one outside my living room would see.

Landon’s shirt won.

I paired it with fitted shorts, arranged dinner on the coffee table, and positioned my phone on its stand with exactly one minute to spare.

At seven twenty-nine, the screen lit.

Big Lando.

I answered.

His face appeared beneath locs pulled away from his forehead, a dark T-shirt stretched across shoulders the man had never once attempted to apologize for possessing. His eyes found my face, then dropped.

Then stayed there long enough to become disrespectful.

“Good evening to you too.”

“You wearing my shirt on our date?”

“It was clean.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s the one available.”