What are the odds, what are the odds?
Pretty good since my parents have loved coming here for forever and tonight looks like it’s no different.
Shit, s**t, s**t.
I glare at Brody like this is all his fault. Hold on a sec, is it his fault?
I watch him looking at me and flick my eyes over to my parents, then his parents, trying to lay down a message that I’m hoping he’s getting. Brody shakes his head at me, and I take it as a negative. So they just happened to show up, huh?
I’m not buying it.
I scoot over in our booth for my parents to squeeze themselves in, my mom taking the aisle seat because that’s who she is as a person. Brody mirrors me, and we end up sitting next to each other in the circular booth, thighs pressed against one another’s, shoulders bumping, too close for comfort.
