The day of the show, Ross wants me to come over and help him dress. WTF? I’m almost afraid to ask what he means by that. When I arrive, his mother’s just putting out dinner. “Have a seat,” she tells me. “There’s plenty for you, too. Ross is so excited.”
I can imagine.
When she calls him for dinner, he bounds down the steps two at a time and slides into the dining room to plop into the seat beside mine. “Hey,” he says, breathless. His hair is damp from a recent shower and slicked back, comb marks still evident like furrows in a freshly plowed field. I catch a whiff of cologne, something sporty that makes my groin ache. Why doesn’t he wear that to school? I’d never roll down the car windows if he did. It smells sexy.
He’s wearing the same thing I am, a T-shirt and jeans, and it’s on the t
