The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER EIGHT; part two

     So in the best interest of maintaining my sanity, I have refrained from thinking about everything that has occurred and is occurring and will be occurring in the last (and next) twenty-four hours. My brain has blotted out all of yesterday's events and I've just been mostly kind of not thinking about where I'll be in less than an hour.

     Which is with Dres, to be clear. In a dark theatre. With less than a foot of space between us.

     Okay, so I'm not actually refraining from thinking about it. It is, in fact, all I can think about. It has taken over my life. But I'm not freaking out.

     I'm under Dres's skin? Yeah, okay. More like he's under mine.

     My mom drops me off at Private Weston on her way to work. She thinks I'm meeting Grace and Halston there. I don't know why I'm not telling her about my plans with Dres, mostly because I'm not sure what my plans with Dres actually are. Are we dating now? Is this just friendship? I'm not sure and I'm trying not to lose my mind figuring it out.

     I find Dres in the kitchen, apron tied around his waist, as he frosts the last row of cupcakes on a tray in front of him. His back is to me, but he glances over his shoulder when I step into the room. It's something like sonar, how he knows when I'm there.

     "Hey, you're early," he says voice cool. Easy going. Casual. 

     I keep reminding myself that this is casual. That I want it to be more than what it is but it's just a movie. It's just a daytime movie, which is even more casual. "Yeah, sorry, I can wait."

     Dres says, "No, it's fine, I'm just about done." He turns back to the cupcakes and finishes icing them to perfection, before he takes the tray to the fridge and slides it onto a rack.

     He unties the apron, tossing it on the counter, as he says, "Car's out back."

     I follow Dres down the hallway, stop outside the Employee room while he gets his jacket, and then out the back door to his car. I try to think of something to say as I get in.

     "Your car smells like you," I decide is a great non sequitur. He glances at me, eyebrows furrowed, and I flush, heat rising on my face, burning my ears. "I mean, your car smells good," I rectify quickly but realize that it doesn't help and just settle for keeping my mouth shut.

     Dres is clearly amused though, so at the very least maybe he finds me funny.

     "How's your eye?" he asks, more clinical than caring.

     "Just the right amount of hurt," I tell him honestly. He glances at me at a red light, staring hard like he's examining my face. He definitely is. "What?" I ask.

     "Are you wearing makeup?" he asks, laughing a little. I'm glaring at him. He goes, "You are." And then he goes, "Huh. You didn't have to do that."

     The makeup has its work cut out for it, covering up the seven shades of embarrassment I'm currently displaying. I stutter on a response. "I did it so people wouldn't look at us and think you use me as your kickboxing dummy or something."

     "Oh, because surely that's the first thing that would cross their minds," Dres responds mockingly.

     I almost say, "No, the first thing that'll cross their minds is that we're into some kinky BDSM shit." But I imagine Dres wouldn't find the joke funny.

     He asks, "Have you seen the trailer for The Martian?"

     I nod. "Yeah. The one with Matt Damon."