Page 46 of Clinically Awkward

One of his favorite things about me.

I took another sip of beer, longer this time.

He did the same.

“Want to watch something?” he asked, reaching for the remote.

“Sure.”

He turned on the TV. Some cooking competition show was on. We watched in comfortable silence, drinking our beer. He made sarcastic comments about the contestants.

I laughed. He laughed.

We opened more beer.

The pizza came out—cold, but still good—and we ate, grease coating our fingers as we returned to our previous argument about whether pineapple belonged on pizza. We talked. We laughed, and by the time we finished the six-pack, I was feeling warm and loose. The edges of my terrible evening with Colton had finally blurred. The room had that soft, fuzzy quality that came with just enough alcohol.

Quinton stood, collecting the empty bottles, and I noticed he swayed slightly. “I think that’s the last of the beer.”

“Tragic,” I said, my words coming out just a little slower than usual.

He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, looking back at me with a grin that was just a little bit dangerous. “I have tequila.”

I should’ve said no. I should’ve said I needed to drive home. I should’ve remembered that tequila and I had a complicated history that usually ended with regrettable decisions and morning-after apologies. Instead, I said, “Bring it.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Patrón and two shot glasses, setting them on the coffee table with slightly less coordination than usual.

“Fancy,” I said.

“I save it for special occasions.”

“Is this a special occasion?”

He met my eyes as he poured. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Oh.

Oh.

He handed me a shot. His fingers lingered on mine.

“To terrible dates,” he said, raising his glass.

“And better company,” I added.

We clinked glasses and threw them back. The tequila burned going down. Smooth but hot, settling in my chest like liquid courage.

Quinton poured another round, and I noticed his hand was less steady now.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Dr. Wesley?”

“I’m trying to help you forget about forty-five minutes of car talk.” He grinned. “Also, I might already be a little drunk.”

“Just a little?”

“Okay, maybe more than a little.”

We took the second shot. Then a third. And somewhere between the third and fourth, something shifted. The space between us on the couch seemed to shrink. Or maybe I moved closer. Or maybe he did. All I knew was that his thigh was suddenly pressed against mine, warm and solid, and I didn’t move away. “You know what I don’t get?” I said, my tongue looser now, my filter significantly lowered.