“Whew! My feet are killing me,” Quinn’s mom said, “and I’m starving. Why don’t we hit the little bistro we like near the theater and then I can take you to meet your date.”
“His name is Doug,” Quinn said. Her mother had a great memory for names, so she knew it was a deliberate oversight. “Sure. They have a great portabella mushroom sandwich.”
Quinn and her mom ordered lunch. They were enjoying an appetizer of spinach and artichoke dip with pita chips when Quinn’s phone pinged to notify her that she had a text. It was Indie.
“I need you to go on a date with Marty and me. He has a friend who tries to tag along and hang out with us wherever we go. You have to go with us to this festival so he’s not a third wheel. You owe me.”
Quinn typed back. “Ugh. Okay. I’ll do it. When?”
“Friday night
