“Sorry,” I blush, hopeful once more. Almost immediately the image from the party blots out all else and I am filled with an unexplainable rage. I struggle to hold it in. Looking at her, I can tell that she knows something is wrong.
“Shay?” She knows my name. Against all reason, my heart skips a beat. “Are you mad about something? …Mad with me?”
I can’t speak. How can I? She’s so innocently beautiful; so wonderfully calm and caring. My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.
“I’m sorry if I came on a little strong at the game. I realized later that you may not be… available, in that sense. Technically, I’m not either. But I like you, so…”
I am speechless. She seems nervous.
“I’m not really that good at flirting.”
“You did just fine,” I croak. Embarrassed, I clear my throat. Suddenly the void is flooded with hundreds of questions. The most important pushes its way to the front. “How can you do this? How can you flirt with me and then kiss him? How can you flirt with me now? Who are you to do that?”