Duffy DUFFY What a terrible question, I thought. Even if I were out with a regular guy, I would hate this question because there wasn’t anything exciting about me. I was barely out of college, I had a decent job at a solid accounting firm, I lived with my dad, had a cat, and... that was kind of it. I didn’t have a lot going on in my life, other than trying to get my student loans paid off and help my dad navigate his post-Mom life. I cleared my throat, my stomach going crazy with nervous butterflies. I was well aware of how awkward I was talking to anybody I didn’t really know. I hated being the center of attention, and trying to pull out actual interesting facts about myself while the other person watched me struggle was the worst. I tended to ramble endlessly and never get to my point. But the fact that the person asking me about myself was Connor Freaking Cunningham, while he was driving his very fancy Porsche SUV— it was just a bit much. “Um, I work in accounting,” I said. “I graduated last year and am studying for my CPA exams. I moved back in with my father last year after my mom died and I recently had a falling-out with a professional mascot, which made me a viral meme. One cat, no dogs. That’s kind of everything about my life. What about you?” I wanted to slap myself in the face. What about you? What a ridiculous thing to say. What about him? Oh, he’s just an NFL tight end, MVP, former Heisman candidate, fashion icon, and general celebrity. What about you? Do you also like cats and hate student loans, Connor? Oblivious to my two-second mental spiral, he said, “I play football, have three cats, and I just bought a place in downtown Minneapolis.” “Wait—are you a cat guy?” I asked in shock. I had no idea why that felt like a revelation, but for some reason it did. “I don’t know that I’d call myself that,” he said, making a face like I’d called him a pretty little princess. “But I do, in fact, have three cats.” “When did you get them?” “Last year after I moved here, I adopted them from the shelter.” Oh my God, he’s a cat guy. He’d adopted not one, but three cats. From the shelter. Someone get me a shot of whiskey, STAT. I needed to wipe that little green flag nugget from my memory because that was some knee-weakening shit. “So, um,” I said, clearing my throat, “did you decorate your house yourself?” I was always curious about single famous guys when they bought real estate. Did they have interior designers make it look good, or did they literally do it themselves? Did he live in a mansion filled with futons and football posters?
“Hell, no. I ordered a couch from Crash Pad and then my sister told me I needed to get a decorator. Which worked out really well because the lady knew her shit and I don’t know dick about decorating, so I just pointed to pictures of things I liked and she killed it.” “Wow,” I said, not wanting to sound gauche but kind of in awe of that process. I couldn’t imagine just being like, Make this place look lovely and not having to worry about the funds to make it all happen. Lifestyles of the rich and athletic. “Does your sister live in town?” I asked. “And the rest of your family?” “They’re all in California where I grew up,” he said. “You’re close with your family?” I didn’t know how to casually small-talk without coming off like I was on a fact-finding mission. And the truth was that I already knew his basic information. He was a California kid, went to USC, and Minnesota was his first NFL gig. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he said with a shrug. “You?” “I mean, whether I want to be or not, my dad and brothers are always around,” I said, and truer words had never been spoken. “They seem nice, though,” he said, and I wondered what he really thought. My dad was probably my favorite person in the world, but I also knew he was a LOT. “You know how family is,” I said. “Nice isn’t the problem—everything else is.” “True.” Even though I was nervous, being in the car with him was getting pretty comfortable. So much so that I started to think maybe dinner would be okay. Until we got to the restaurant. He pulled up in front of the downtown building and a valet came out, but as soon as Connor got out of the car, I saw a flash. I literally thought, Is it lightning? for a split second before I saw the camera. Then I realized there were actually people standing outside the restaurant, taking pictures as Connor opened my door and I st epped out. Not a huge crowd of paparazzi, but a few randos who looked like journalists or professional photographers. What the hell? I am a nobody, why are you here? He placed a large hand—9.63 inches—on my lower back and led me toward the door, but my cheeks were on fire as these people k ept taking pictures of us walking in. How had they even known Connor and I were going to be there? I could feel that my sweater had slipped off my shoulder again and I was getting a blister on my left heel, but I k ept my head held high and hoped I didn’t look too sweaty and ridiculous in any of these shots. I wouldn’t want to embarrass Connor with my Duffiness. “You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning his head down closer to mine so only I could hear him. His face was a mix of concern and encouragement that made me feel like he understood exactly how lost I felt in the spotlight. “I know it’s a lot but you’re doing great. Only a few more st eps.” I nodded, and it was impossible not to smile back as he ducked his head even closer to block some of the camera flashes and gave me a grin that felt like it was for me. I was so happy when we got inside and away from the photographers, but the second we st epped into the quiet, dimly lit restaurant, I felt the eyes of everyone inside the place upon us. As we followed
the maître d’ to our table, every single person we passed was watching us. My face was on fire. My heel caught in a floor seam and my ankle wobbled in the way that told the world I wasn’t good in heels, dammit, and I couldn’t stop thinking about stupid things like underwear lines and proper posture. I knew I should’ve gone with flats. “Wow,” I said when we finally got seated, happy to no longer be upright and on display. I put the linen napkin on my lap and prayed for sweat control. “Is it like this everywhere you go?” “I think this has more to do with us—and our appearance on the show —than me alone,” he said with the calm of a man used to being watched. “I don’t usually get this kind of rec eption.” “Well, lucky me,” I said under my breath. “I don’t even know how they knew we’d be here. Do you?” Connor shook his head as he folded and refolded his napkin. “Did you make the reservation under your name?” I asked, curious. “Yeah,” he said, nodding and looking apologetic. “That’s got to be it.” “Yeah,” I said, glancing down at the menu. “It’s still weird, though, that so many people knew, don’t you think?” “Who can figure out the press?” he said a bit she epishly, giving me a small shrug. How do you live like this? I couldn’t imagine this being normal for a random weekday dinner. I looked at the menu again, stressed over what to order in a room full of observers. Could I even eat right now? Shut up, Duff, of course you can eat. You can always eat. “I’m sorry,” he blurted loudly. I looked up at him in surprise. He cleared his throat and said more quietly, “About the photographers, I mean. They... they shouldn’t have been there like that. I know this isn’t what you envisioned.” I cocked my head at him. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I don’t think I even know what I was envisioning, to be honest.” It was true. What could one even begin to expect when asked out by a football star? “Probably me dropping something...?” he suggested, the trademark teasing glint appearing in his eyes. “I mean, probably,” I said with a shrug, which made him shake his head and mutter “Busting my ass again” under his breath. Which made me giggle in spite of everything. After they brought us wine and took our orders, Connor looked toward the entrance for a moment, frowned, and turned back to me with an expression that I could only describe as pure resolve. And then he proceeded to do the impossible. He distracted me from the fact that we were the show. I was all in my head with my neuroses until he leaned back in his chair and said, “So I’m sure you’re sick of talking about it, but I have to ask about the whole Carl thing.” I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I loved every minute of it and was just being an attention whore when I kicked his ass.”
“Okay, I don’t think you can say you kicked his ass, so calm down,” he said with an easy grin. “But I do want to hear your side. What happened after that moment? You know, when—” Connor lifted a finger and whistled as he swung it down, as if r eplaying Carl’s fall. I actually smiled at that, because he had a way of discussing the incident that felt safe, like he empathized with me. “First of all, don’t steal my thunder because the ass-kicking cred is the only good thing to come from the incident, and second of all, um... it hit me pretty quickly. I saw myself on the jumbotron, and before I even had a chance to register the moment, the guy to my left yelled, ‘Holy shit, that bitch just laid out Carl’ while the entire Coyote fandom started booing me.” “Oh shit,” he said. “Oh shit, indeed.” “But I think it’s unfair of you to say the ass-kicking cred is the only good thing to come from the incident. If not for the throwdown, you wouldn’t have fainted at the sight of me or let me take you to dinner,” he said, raising his eyebrow. “I think ‘fainted at the sight of’ you is a bit misleading,” I said, reaching for my water. “Well, I’m no Bill Cowher.” “You definitely are not,” I quipped. He coughed out a laugh. “Ouch.” “Simply stating a fact, Cunningham,” I said, wondering how it could feel so natural, so comfortable, to talk to him when he was, in fact, a celebrity athlete. “Simply being a dick, Distefano.” “Am not,” I said with a laugh. “You know, I think it might be a red flag that in your eyes, me not being Bill Cowher is a flaw,” he teased. “The man is old enough to be your father.” “Are you judging me?” “I would never.” “Also for the record, I no longer romantically love him. It’s simmered into a respectful appreciation of his legendary career.” “I see.” “Your eyes tell me that you don’t.” “That’s because according to Tony—” “Don’t bring my dad into this,” I admonished. “—it was only a year ago that you brained yourself over him in the TSA line.” “Are we really going to waste precious minutes of this date talking about my former loves?” “Is that bad form?” “The baddest.” “Okay, moving on, then. I need to know your favorite film, favorite food, favorite TV show, and also your favorite color.” “Wow, okay,” I said, noticing that he was good at eye contact. Not in a cre epy way, but in the way that let you know he was genuinely interested in hearing what you had to say. It was nice. And surprising when he was someone whose entire life was far more interesting than mine. “My favorite film is probably Crazy, Stupid, Love., favorite food is spaghetti, favorite TV show is Monk, and I don’t believe in favorite colors.” “I’m sorry—you don’t believe in favorite colors?” He said it like I’d stated I didn’t believe we’d landed on the Moon. “That’s right. Because I have a preferred car color—black—and most of the clothes I purchase are black because they’re more versatile, but how can someone have a ‘favorite’ color? Like, you look at that color and feel happy—is that it? Like I love orange and the color orange just fills my happy cups?”
“Your happy cups.” He cleared his throat before giving his head a shake. “Please kill me if I ever use that expression.” “Gladly. But you see what I mean, right?” “I mean, yeah, but I think most people just like a certain color.” “What’s your favorite color?” “Why do you make me feel like a clown for liking red?” He set his chin on his hand and said, “Who hurt you at Crayola?” I laughed, but then noticed that the woman at the table behind Connor had her phone pointed at us and was filming. And I was immediately back to being too stressed to enjoy myself. Suddenly, I couldn’t relax because I could feel everyone staring at me. The Carl Incident—my brother Matty’s label for the whole debacle— had left me absolutely paranoid, all the time. Too many instances I’d assumed a smiling stranger on the sidewalk was just being polite, and then later I’d see they’d posted a snarky comment with a sneaky photo they’d snapped. Football Karen looking ROUGH AF tonight. So on any given day, anytime someone looked at me for more than a half second, I assumed they were up to no good. And tonight—tonight I wasn’t paranoid; tonight the entire place was literally watching me. Which now made it impossible to focus on the date itself. With each bite after that, I worried I was chewing weird. Every time I smiled, I was concerned there was something in my teeth that would be captured with a hidden camera. And when I accidentally set my wineglass on my knife and it tipped over, causing the fancy waiters to rush over and clean it up, I wanted to die of mortification. To make matters worse, Connor was so nice. To me, but also to his fans. When a middle-aged man came over and asked if he could get a picture with Connor, my date was incredibly sweet about it. After asking me if I minded, he excused himself and went over to their table, smiling and chatting while restaurant employees took photos. Damn, he looks nice in a sweater. He was wearing a cashmere sweater and the kind of perfectly tailored pants that screamed money, and he was flawless. He could’ve been on a magazine cover with the way he looked right now. I watched him charm the diners, which, of course, led to more customers approaching him, and suddenly Connor was working the room, being the nicest guy on the planet to everyone in the restaurant. But instead of this distraction giving me a quiet moment outside of the spotlight, where I was able to let my guard down, it was somehow worse. Because everyone who wasn’t watching him appeared to be looking at —and discussing—his date, who was sitting awkwardly by herself. I wanted to hide out in the bathroom, but I didn’t have the courage to walk across the room, knowing so many eyes were on me. I wanted to disappear so badly, but that thought served only to remind me that there might still be people waiting outside to snap photos. God, I couldn’t wait to be home. “I am so sorry about that,” Connor said when he finally returned to the table, and I could tell he meant it, that he hadn’t intended for it to get so crazy.
“It’s fine,” I said, working up my best smile. “Gotta give the people what they want.” When we finally left, I could feel every person in the restaurant still watching us, and the second Connor held open the door and we st epped outside, the cameras were back. Fantastic. Someone yelled my name and like the clueless nobody that I was, I said, “Yeah?” The second I said it, I realized it’d been a photographer, but it was second nature to respond to your own name, right? “How was your dinner?” the guy said. “Is this the hard launch?” said another guy. “Are Connor and Duffy official now?” I glanced at Connor, and he was st epping forward and opening his mouth to answer for me, clearly showing that he didn’t want me to feel pressured to speak. And for some reason, it made me want to beat him to it. To reassure him—and myself—that I could do this. I said, “Dinner was good, no one’s launching anything, and Connor and I are officially done with our first date.” “Is there going to be a second?” someone else asked. “Hopefully,” Connor said at the same moment I r eplied, “Probably not.” He raised an eyebrow and gave me a half smile. “Probably not?” “I mean, I don’t think either of us saw fireworks in the restaurant,” I teased, unable to hold back a smile. “Did you?” “I would’ve set the damn dessert on fire if I knew you were looking for fireworks,” he said with a huge grin. “And I would’ve set you on fire if you’d torched my chocolate cake,” I said, grinning back. I heard a couple laughs, which was a relief, and then Connor grabbed my hand and started leading me down the long sidewalk toward his car, which the valet had already pulled up. I tried to ke ep a normal pace on the ste ep decline, acting like walking downhill in heels was easy and not something that should be an Olympic sport. “Shit,” I muttered when my heel got stuck in a sidewalk crack and I stumbled. He calmly stopped and looked down at me, his fingers squeezing tightly around mine, those digits seemingly strong enough to prevent a grown woman from falling simply by flexing. “Uh-oh,” he said. I looked down and couldn’t believe it. “Uh-oh, indeed.” My heel was broken. The freaking heel had literally broken off. I knew there were probably pictures being taken at that very second of the girl who couldn’t afford quality shoes. I leaned down to grab it—although what the hell was I going to ever do with that stupid heel—but Connor beat me to it. He snatched up the dead heel and said, “Get on.” “What?” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Piggyback. Way better than having to limp all the way to the car.” I normally would’ve argued, but suddenly I just wanted out of there— now. So when he turned his body, I hopped onto his back.
Strong hands grasped my legs and he immediately started hauling me toward his car, and I giggled despite the embarrassing nightmare because this was just so absurd. People were photographing me being carried to Connor Cunningham’s car. On his back. Absurd. It was probably easy for someone like Connor to be used to the attention, since he was confident and not socially awkward, but I couldn’t wait for it to end. He set me down beside his car and then finally—finally—we were out of there. As he pulled up to a red light a few blocks later, he asked, “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied with a big smile. “I know it can be a little intense, being the center of attention.” “Yeah, it was definitely that,” I said casually, like it’d been no big deal. “You handled it well, though,” he said, grinning. “You’re a natural.” “Bullshit,” I said with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure I was in a full body sweat and all bug-eyed. Just wait until you see a picture from tonight; guarantee I look like a ghoul.” “I love ghouls,” he teased. “Yeah, I’m sure. How do you deal with that all the time?” I asked, genuinely curious. “I’m kind of getting used to it, but sometimes when I walk into a place like that, my brain starts serving up all the things I could do to completely destroy everything.” “Please explain,” I said, turning a little in my seat, intrigued. “Like... kissing a cameraman on the forehead, jumping on top of a table and tap-dancing, proposing marriage to the old woman at the table next to us; the possibilities are truly endless.” “Okay, I wish you would’ve told me that before we went because that could’ve made things a lot less stressful,” I said with a laugh. “I knew I should’ve proposed to the old lady.” That made him laugh and God, I really liked his laugh. He had one of those wide-open, throw-your-head-back laughs, like he was soaking in every bit of happiness out of that particular moment. He drummed his thumb on the steering wheel, his eyes slightly narrowed in thought, and then he said, “Listen. It’s still pretty early and I know that was a lot, but do you want to go home already?” I opened my mouth to blurt y ep, because I couldn’t handle any more scrutiny and photographers, but I was also having a really good time with Connor. I had no idea how it was possible to feel so at ease with him when we’d just met and he was a beautiful famous dude, but a huge part of me was bummed the night was about to end, because I actually liked him. “Because I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink after all that. There’s a dive bar around the corner that’s got cheap drinks and no witnesses, if you’re interested.” So tempting. “I think people will still recognize you at a dive bar,” I said, trying to say no but unable to actually spit out the words. “No, I’m talking dive dive bar,” he said. “There’s one I go to now and then where no one ever recognizes me. It’s dark and smells like greasy food.”
“You’re delusional if you think no one there knows you,” I said. “Impossible.” “I also put on a hat before I go in,” he said, as if that changed everything. “Oh yeah, surely that’s the thing that would make all the difference in the world. Everyone knows that when you put on a hat, you become an entirely different person.” “Do not doubt me, wiseass,” he said. “It’s the kind of hat that makes the difference.” “Is that so?” I asked with a snort. “A difference-making hat?” “Watch this.” He pulled up to a stoplight and put the car in park, leaned across me to reach into the glove box, then dug out the most ridiculous hat I’d ever seen. It was like the hunting hat Elmer Fudd wore in Bugs Bunny cartoons, with furry felt ear covers. He held up a finger before reaching into the back seat and pulling out a plaid winter coat, the kind of barn jacket that looked like someone who lived out in the country would wear. He put it on and zipped it all the way up, and then he grabbed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the center console and put them on his face. And holy shit—he actually didn’t look at all like himself anymore. He was somehow still hot, but nerdy with an I-might-hunt-people-for- sport vibe. “That is quite the disguise—you look like a sociopath,” I said, giggling in spite of everything. “Right?” He looked boyish, positively mischievous, as he raised his eyebrows and started driving again. “And don’t you think since I went to all the trouble to show you this, you should go to the dive bar with me?” “I’m missing a heel, though.” “The heel’s not a problem if you’re in,” he said, his eyes looking big and hopeful behind his fake glasses. “I can fix it.” I didn’t know what that meant; all I knew was that I wanted desperately to have a little more time with Connor. “Fine, but only one drink. And maybe some fries.” There was just something about him that was hard to deny, and I strongly suspected it was the simple fact that he was fun. I hadn’t had much of that in a really long time. And, y’know... wildly attractive and charming. Hotter than the sun, really. “Definitely some fries,” he said, hitting the gas down the quiet street. He turned at the corner, found a curb spot, and he was out of the car mere moments later. “Show me that heel,” he said when he came around and opened my door. I swung my legs over the edge of the seat, so they were dangling out of the car while I remained seated, and before I could even give a thought to what was going to happen or how he was going to “fix” it, Connor went to work. He looked at my boot for approximately one second, then without a word, he pulled it off my foot. Something about the confidence, the utter capability of that swift move, made me want to gasp. Or request smelling salts so I didn’t faint. I watched in disbelief as he snapped the heel like a twig, easy and casual like it wasn’t glued and nailed together. I was fairly certain the move didn’t require superhuman strength, but I was just as certain I couldn’t have cracked off a heel like that.
Well OKAY, I thought. I’m not even going to entertain any thoughts about what insanely attractive thing just happened. Nope. “Now they’re flats,” he said, looking up at me with a boyish half smile as he held out the boot for me to slide my foot back into. “Right?” I swallowed and slid my foot back into the boot, suddenly giggly and light-headed as I st epped out of the car. “Right.” The boots didn’t look right without the heels, but if you weren’t checking too closely, they worked. When we got inside (where, true to his word, nobody even glanced our way), I saw what was happening at the far end of the bar just as he looked over and gave me the hugest grin. “We have to,” he said. “Nooo, oh my God, no,” I said, shaking my head. I’d never done karaoke and I was definitely going to ke ep that streak going. “You can, but I am not. Ever, like, never ever.” “Oh, come on—just a little duet.” “No, thank you,” I said, and I was a little surprised that he wanted to. That he was unserious enough about himself to think it’d be fun, laid-back enough to risk being spotted. We went over to a table in the corner and sat down. “Do you know what you want to drink?” he asked. “Because I think that bartender is literally the only guy working tonight.” “Just a Jack and Coke,” I said. “And fries,” he added. “Be right back.” I watched as he went over to the bar and ordered, and I wondered—yet again—how this was happening. I was at a random dive bar with Connor Cunningham and he was ordering my drink. After asking me to sing a karaoke duet with him. After buying me dinner. After picking me up from my childhood home. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe I was sound asle ep in my room at my dad’s house, Dale Earnhardt Junior was having the zoomies in the living room, and my brain was taking me on a wild ride with 9.63 inches of hand span. That made as much sense as this actual date. My phone buzzed and when I pulled it out, I had five messages. The first four were from Ellie. SO???? How’s it going? Chemistry still high?? Make sure you’re not too nice. But be nice, ofc!! I didn’t even attempt a response, because trying to explain the evening would take more time than I had. The other message was from Matty. Dad wants to know if you’re being nice. I rolled my eyes and set down the phone right as Connor came back to the table. Wow, he was quite a sight. His Elmer-Fudd-meets-serial-killer disguise was ridiculous, yet he somehow managed to pull off looking wildly attractive, even while
costumed up. Maybe it was his massive size, or maybe it had to do with the sexy little smirk he seemed to live in, but unattractive seemed to be the one thing he was in capable of. How unfair, I thought as I sat in my busted boots. “I can tell you’re desperate to blow me off, so I have an idea,” he said as he sat down across from me. “What?” His eyes dipped down to my phone on the table. Oh my God, he thinks I’m bored. He probably saw me rolling my eyes at my brother’s text and thought I wanted to get out of there. “How about you do one duet with me and the worst date of your life is over; you don’t even have to finish your drink.” It was wild, the way he said that, as if I actually hated going out with him. Because that part definitely wasn’t true. I hated the pomp and ceremony that’d accompanied the evening before we’d hit the bar, but I was actually having a good time with Connor. He seemed funny, kind, and smart, and in a different situation, I was pretty sure this would be a great date. But I just didn’t know how to date somebody who was Somebody. “It has been pretty dreadful,” I said with a smile, wanting him to know that I was having fun. “And I don’t even think there are duets anymore, Cunningham.” “What are you even talking about? There’s ‘Die with a Smile’ by Lady Gaga, that d epressing song from A Star Is Born by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper, also wow—Gaga really likes a duet, doesn’t she?” “She does,” I agreed with a laugh. “We could also go super old-school, like ‘Islands in the Stream’ by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers.” “Ewww.” “What ewww? My nana loved everything Kenny and Dolly.” “Of course she did.” “Are you mocking Nana?” he teased with an eyebrow raise. “I would never.” Just as I was thinking that he could absolutely force me to do this simply by suggesting “Exile” (my all-time favorite song), he said, “And there’s always ‘Exile’ or ‘Coney Island’ if you’re into that Swiftie sort of thing.” No way. No way. I had to do it now, right? “Are you?” I asked, suddenly curious about his music taste. “Into that sort of thing?” He leaned a little closer, picked up his beer, and said, “I definitely know all the words without looking at the lyrics.” “Oh, dear God,” I r eplied, reaching for my glass, smiling despite myself as I took a drink because the one-two punch of his überdirect eye contact and de ep voice felt more powerful than the whiskey that warmed my throat. And as he watched me, I realized that I wanted a little stupid silly moment with Connor—just the two of us—before life went back to normal. I could let myself have that, right? “Okay, so I guess we have to do ‘Exile,’ ” I said, shaking my head in disbelief as I set down my drink. “Is Distefano excited about this?” he said before lifting his bottle to his mouth.
“Not excited, just trying to end this miserable date,” I teased. “But ‘Exile’ is a great song so we will do it.” “Gimme More” started playing in my head yet again as I watched him take a few swallows of his beer, my eyes dipping down to his neck. Knock it off, you thirsty bitch! “We both know you’re excited, regardless of what you say,” he said, using the little keypad at the table to sign us up. “You’ve never done karaoke before, have you?” “No, I have not,” I admitted, lifting my glass and downing the rest of my drink. “Have you?” “Let’s just say there was a karaoke bar way too close to my apartment in college. My friends and I were there all the damn time, making fools out of ourselves on a regular basis.” I could totally picture it. He was so confident and funny that even as a no-name college freshman, people probably went to that bar just hoping he’d be there with his friends. While we waited for our turn, he entertained me with funny college stories that made his eyes crinkle and his dimples pop. There was something about laughing with him, our eyes meeting easily, that felt so nice that it kind of made me sad. Wistful for something. I am truly a wreck. Then he mentioned playing COD with his friends, which made me launch into all the stories of learning to play COD—the old-school World War II version—with my dad and brothers when my mom thought I was doing homework, and we got so lost in conversation that I almost forgot where we were and who I was with. Until we were called to the stage. “Please welcome to the stage, Kenny and Dolly,” the bartender said into the microphone, looking bored as he made the announcement then quickly went back to mixing drinks. I looked at Connor. “Tell me that isn’t us.” “I couldn’t use our real names,” he said with a look that told me he was very amused by his choice of fakes and not even the tiniest bit sorry. “So that was your only option, is that what you’re saying?” “Pretty much,” he said with a smile as he stood. “You ready, Distefano?” Yes, it was a dive bar and it wasn’t packed, but I felt a rush of butterflies as I climbed to my feet. There were enough people out there to make me want to throw up at the idea of singing in front of them. But when we st epped onstage, I glanced at Connor and he gave me another smile. That world-famous Connor Cunningham grin. There was a reason why people in the city loved him, above and beyond how good he was at football. He had this crackling energy about him, like he was down for a good time all the time, and dear Lord, he was giving me that good- time smile right now. I couldn’t help but smile back, especially when I realized that in “Exile,” the opening lines were the man’s. He had to sing first, and that was wonderful. And he was brilliant. “I can see you standing, honey, with his arms around your body,” he started, and I was instantly giggling. Not only was his voice terrible, but he was melodramatic, waving a fist and making a ridiculously somber face as he sang the
heartbreaking lyrics. His unseriousness made it so easy for me to sing my part. Also thank you, Jack Daniel’s, for the liquid courage. We sang the crap out of that song, both of us laughing as we belted the lyrics and gestured to each other like lovesick fools while no one in the place paid us any attention. “I can’t believe you didn’t want to do this when you were obviously born to be onstage,” Connor said as we walked back to our table, his hand on my lower back. “The way you dropped your microphone twice, the way you cackled directly into it when I hit my high note; you, Miss Distefano, are a natural performer.” “I guess I was afraid you’d be jealous,” I said with a laugh. “Of...?” he prompted. “Of my talent? My... showmanship?” “I mean, I was definitely in awe of it,” he said as we sat down. “Your performance was awesomely... something.” “Stop gushing, Cunningham, it’s embarrassing.” “Like your performance.” “Embarrassingly awesome?” His mouth slid into a gut-punching full-on grin. “That is exactly what it was.” I was truly disappointed when we had to leave, but I also knew morning was going to come way too early. When he finally pulled up in front of my house, I held out a hand. “You probably don’t want to walk me to the door,” I said, looking out the windshield and remembering the chaotic nightmare that had been his arrival at my house several hours before. “No?” Connor asked, his dark eyebrows wrinkling together like he was confused by my request. “No,” I said. “It’ll be round two of the pickup. My dad and brothers will try to get you to stay and watch TV and drink beer with them and it’ll be a whole thing that we don’t want happening. Dropping me here is perfect,” I said. “Well, I had a really great time tonight,” he said, and something about the tone of his voice made my stomach do a flip as those intense eyes met mine. “So did I,” I said, feeling shy and also like I was going to explode from the way he was looking at me. It was impossible. Connor Cunningham could not be looking at me like that. And I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but it felt like he was leaning in closer, like there was a heavy anticipation in the air. Is he going to kiss me? I swallowed and looked at his mouth, and when my eyes came back up, I could see he’d registered that look. He saw that I’d looked at his mouth. Did he think I was expecting him to kiss me? Maybe he had zero plans to, but now I’d looked at his mouth. Shit. My wild imagination was making me a fool and I didn’t want to embarrass myself so before I could make things worse, I reached for the door handle and jumped out of the car. “Thank you so much I had a great time,” I yelled at him, barely registering his look of surprise and amusement, before turning and running up the stairs to my porch. He idled in the car while I unlocked the door, and after I st epped inside, I let out a relieved breath. I then watched through the pe ephole as he finally put the car in reverse and drove away.
I’d just had dinner and sung karaoke with Connor Freaking Cunningham. What the hell?