“Auuugh!” Jake laughs. “That movie is so bad!”
Objectively, maybe. But that’s strike three for objectively handsome Jake. Poor guy. Strikes one and two are that he isn’t Adam. We argue about movies until we roll past the diner to my car.
Then a dark figure steps onto the sidewalk at our side.
With a holler, Jake jerks the handlebars, and we tumble onto the ground, a tangle of limbs and electric scooter.
“Stevie!” a familiar voice calls.
There’s no time to care that Adam is watching me kiss the pavement. My right hip and shoulder absorb the impact with the old bricks, which feel like a cheese grater against my bare knees. Jake and I finally stop rolling and land in an undignified heap.
“Ugh ...” I moan, curling up to sit on my bottom. The whole world spins thanks to my barely-healed concussion. But, because of Jake’s helmet and the sacrifice of my hip and shoulder, my brain is safe—I think. This doesn’t feel the same as my last fall, anyway. I’m rattled, but the pain is centralized in my hip and legs.
“What were you thinking?” Adam barks at Jake, kneeling at my side.
Jake groans, holding a hand to his head.
Marlow pushes through the diner doors. “What on earth happened?”
“Some guy stepped in front of us on the sidewalk,” Jake mumbles, his eyes pinched shut.
“It was Shirtless Adam,” a woman calls helpfully from the park bench a dozen feet away.
Adam buries a growl, looking me over. “What hurts?”
“Yes,” I whine, aware that I’m making no sense. Everything hurts.
“Your head? How’s your head?” Adam reaches for my shredded knees but stops himself. His hand clenches into a tight fist.
“I don’t know.” I press my fingers to my temple. “Good, I guess.”
“My head was fine without a helmet, thanks.” Jake wasn’t this whiny before the fall.
“I texted August.” Marlow drops her phone into her apron. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I mumble. I need this date to be over so I can go home, clean my gashes, and cry into a bowl of Lucky Charms.
“Can I help you up?” Adam murmurs.
I nod, peering up at him. “Thanks.”
I don’t need a doctor for road rash, and I don’t need help standing, but I like having a valid excuse for Adam to take my hand in a public place. He helps me to my feet, and I hang onto him a little too long.
Meanwhile, Jake groans, pulling his non-Segway upright. “I’m good, thanks,” Jake mutters.
“Are you really?” I ask. I was wearing his helmet, after all. I unbuckle it, passing it to Jake. “How’s your head?”
“That rang my bell a little, but I’ll be fine.” His eyes move to Adam and back while he puts on his helmet. “Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.” I bite my lip. “Our friend, August, is a doctor. Want him to take a look at you?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” It’s dim out here, but Jake turns red. He won’t quite look at me. “I’m going to head out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.” There’s a whirring sound when he presses a button on his handlebars. He climbs carefully on the footboard, looking from me to Adam. “Thanks for the ...” He can’t seem to find an appropriate descriptor for this evening. “Date.”
This was, indeed, a Date.