Page 16 of The Irresistible Distraction

“What?” My son is half muttering, so I feel justified in the stupidity of my question as Vera opens the door.

Sebastian looks at our neighbor, who already looks more pulled together than I’ll be all day, and ignores my question, addressing our neighbor directly. “Doesn’t she always say she might stay late or go out with Maggie but then she’s back before five anyhow?”

Because I don’t have time to argue, I tell my son, “I have to hug and run.” I squeeze Vera’s hand, mouthing a truly inadequate, Thank you as I rush to my car.

I’m a few blocks away and smearing tinted sunscreen on my face at the red light. wondering, for the hundredth time that morning, whether I was crazy to agree to a date, when I call Vera.

“Is Sebastian there?”

“Already lying down in the guest room. What’s up?”

I lower my voice, even though that’s patently ridiculous. Who’s going to hear me in my own Prius on a deserted series of streets at 5:20 a.m. on July Fourth?

“I got asked on a date—” I pause because Vera Robeson, my sixty-next-year neighbor, squeals directly into my ear.

“Sorry, I don’t think Seba heard. I can keep him as long as you want. All night? Sleepover? Want to stay out all weekend? Safely, of course.”

“It’s more of a late-afternoon date.”

“Sounds perfect. Check that your location share is on, okay?”

I nod before remembering I’m on the phone. “You’re really okay watching Sebastian?”

“Honey, Sebastian could move in if it meant you’d go out every now and again. You’re young. Go explore. Frolic.” Vera lowers her voice for the last part. “Tell me the PG version later. And don’t you dare come home before midnight.”

“You know you’re not my high school teacher anymore, right?”

“Yes, dear, but my teacher’s voice commands greater obedience.”

And then we both laugh, because it’s likely Rim of the World High School has never had a less compliance-driven teacher than Vera, the woman who famously told her students to think of deadlines as suggestions.

After we hang up, I use each stop sign as a beauty check: I fuss with my ponytail, apply an extra layer of tinted sunscreen, and find myself wishing I’d gotten up early enough to locate my probably expired mascara or that I’d at least googled whether makeup products sour, like milk. At the last light, which always takes forever, I manage to dig tinted ChapStick out of my backpack.

I spend a useless minute worrying whether I’ll have time to go home and change later so I’m not wearing a different-colored variation of the cardigan, tank, and poodle skirt Clark saw me in yesterday on my first date in years. Then I remind myself there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance Sexy Tourist partied too hard, drank too much, and forgot. Perhaps he wandered back to the party and found a better option.

But when I pull past the diner into the extended parking lot we almost never use, I see both Sexy Tourist and Maggie, already waiting. Walking toward them, I can’t help but stare at the man who claims to want a date with me, because honestly, handsome doesn’t begin to describe it. Despite the ill-fitting, too-snug set of leather pants and jacket over a faded white T-shirt, the cheapness of his attire can’t disguise the fact that he’s six-foot-something of solidly built man. His smile is dazzlingly irreverent when he makes eye contact. Next to him, my pregnant friend looks diminutive . . . and is glowing with barely suppressed glee.

“You got stuck at the last light?” Maggie asks.

While I lead with, “Did you rob the set of Grease?”

Sexy Tourist shrugs out of the leather jacket carefully. “The house I’m staying at has an incredible lost-and-found closet. The jacket’s a bit tight and I don’t have the hair grease to go full-on John Travolta, but I wanted to arrive as close to diner-themed as possible.”

They both wait as I unlock the door, which sticks again. While I struggle, I hear Maggie explain to Sexy Tourist about the traffic light that’s been on a stupidly prolonged timer since our high school days.

“By the way, Clark here has already texted me his driver’s license and I have his cell number, which means that you two”—she points a finger between the two of us as she pushes past the door I’m holding open—“are all set for your big night out.”

“Exactly how long have you guys been waiting for me?”

“A few minutes—” Clark starts.

“Plenty of time. More than enough for me to find out all the details.” My best friend waggles her eyebrows at me before stopping so suddenly that Clark half stumbles behind her. She turns her five-nothing frame toward him and jabs a finger at his very solid chest. “This is where I inform you that my husband is a firefighter, a very large, one hundred percent pure muscle stud.” She throws me a look because Tyler is awesome, but also, five foot six on a good day . . . in his firefighter boots. “And Tyler is very well connected with law enforcement, which means”—she pauses at the moment when I know she would have normally said my name—“Rita here has friends. Friends with legally owned, fully licensed firearms.”

Clark smiles down at my pregnant bestie, not the least bit intimidated. “You’re fun.” And then he heads to the back. “Are there dishes to start with? Or something else?”

“Rita’s fun,” Maggie shouts into the back. “And she used to be really fun,” she continues, while I try to grab at her arm. I turn toward Maggie at the same moment she looks at me, making a face. “That didn’t come out how I wanted it to, did it?”

Two minutes later, Reuben and Mario arrive, the two cousins listening with matching grins as Maggie instructs them to call me Rita today, because Clark-the-Sexy-Tourist is trying to earn a date. They high-five each other before introducing themselves to Clark and leading him around the kitchen, and before long we’re settling into a semi-normal routine. The morning rush is slower than I expect—not uncommon given that July Fourth falls on a Saturday this year, meaning people likely started celebrating yesterday. I use the extra time to bake additional batches of cookies while Maggie unpacks the individually packaged popcorn and other party favors we’re hoping to sell.