In the week or so I’d had to observe him, my theoretical crush had only increased. Clark still seemed pretty nervous around me whenever I picked up or dropped off Bertie, always managing to drop something or talking a little too fast, and for some reason, this made him even cuter. I also had the feeling that if we could talk for more than five minutes, this would go away. He usually stopped dropping things right about the time Bertie would yank me toward he door, having gotten fed up with waiting.
When I looked online for more information about him (since all I knew about him was that he liked the same movies as Tom and was bad at walking his dog, neither of which were turning out to be great conversation starters), I couldn’t find anything, no matter how much I googled. Nobody I knew had heard of a Clark Goetz-Hoffman going to school around us. And, like my friends had just proved, that wasn’t a name you quickly forgot. I figured that maybe he went to boarding school during the year, or something. Even as I tried to tell myself I was being ridiculous, I’d started spending more and more time getting ready each day, to the point where Maya, when we were doing a key exchange yesterday, had waggled her eyebrows at me and asked me if I had a hot date.
“You should ask him out,” Palmer said with the confidence of someone who’s been in a long-term relationship for three years. “I mean, what’s the worst he can say?”
“He could say no,” Toby pointed out.
“And then he could say, ‘You’re fired. Please don’t walk my dog anymore,’?” Bri added.
“Right,” I agreed. I’d already done my mental pros and cons list about this and had realized how awkward it would be if I asked him out, got rejected, and then had to see him every day. Plus, there was something nice about how things were right now. Theoretical crushes could remain perfect and flawless, because you never actually had to find out what that person was really like or deal with the weird way they chewed or anything.
“I think you should go for it,” Tom said, giving me a thumbs-up. “Give him a shot.”
Palmer gave him a level look. “Is this just because you want another guy to hang out with?”
“Not entirely,” Tom muttered, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. “I just liked his Doctor Who shirt.”
“You can hang out with Wyatt tonight,” Bri said, and Toby’s head whipped around so fast, I got smacked in the face by her hair. “He said he was going to try and stop by the diner. And there’s supposed to be a party at the Orchard.”
“Oh, Wyatt’s back?” Tom asked, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic. “Yay.”
“How do you know that?” Toby asked, leaning across me to get closer to Bri, like proximity would help her understand this. “Did he call you? Did you talk to him? Did he say anything about me?”
“He just messaged me last night,” Bri said. “Calm down.”
“How could you not have told me this? Can I see your phone?” Toby asked, now practically in my lap as she tried to reach across me and into Bri’s bag. “Oh my god. What did he say?”
“Here,” Bri said, handing her phone to Toby, who stayed exactly where she was, half leaning across me.
“Tobes,” I said, trying to nudge her off me.
“Shh, I’m reading.”
“See?” Bri asked, shaking her head. “He basically said that he’s in town, I told him we might be at the diner tonight, and he said he’d stop by. End of story.”
“Wait, I thought you liked Wyatt,” Palmer said, turning to Tom.
“Of course he likes Wyatt,” Toby said, not taking her eyes from Bri’s phone—or moving off of me.
“He’s okay,” Tom said with a shrug. “I just didn’t know we were going to be hanging out with him again this year.”
“You were just telling me how much you wanted another guy to hang out with,” Palmer reminded him.
“Yeah, but Wyatt’s always, like, calling me ‘brother,’?” Tom said, dropping his voice down into a pretty decent Wyatt imitation. “And he’s always hitting me on the back.”
“Maybe that means he likes you,” Toby said, looking up from the screen for only a second.
“Well, it hurts,” Tom muttered.
“Oh, shit,” Palmer said, looking at her watch and jumping up. “I totally haven’t been paying attention to the time.” She nudged Tom. “You’ve got to get back there, babe.” Tom nodded, gave her a quick kiss, and started to jog up the aisle. She turned to us and nodded up toward the director. “I’ve got to get these actors back in. See you guys tonight?”
“Absolutely,” Bri said as she stood and started to gather her things. “Just text us when you’re done with this.”
“Have fun,” I said, waving at Tom and starting to head out of the row, but not before Palmer grabbed my arm.
“You should go for it with Clark,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Why not?”
I smiled at her and headed up the aisle of the theater, then out into the bright sunshine of the parking lot, where Bri’s SUV, a purple Escape hybrid, was parked. She’d gotten it earlier this year and immediately named it McQueen. “Because it’s the Grape Escape,” she’d said, smiling proudly when she told us. “Get it?” None of us did, and Bri had declared us all completely lacking in any kind of film education and then made us watch The Great Escape and Bullitt back-to-back, which led to Palmer developing a huge crush on Steve McQueen. (This then led to Tom getting incredibly jealous of a dead movie star and getting a sixties haircut that looked terrible and took months to grow out.)