Forty-five minutes later, I’m clean, cute, and my mom is driving me to Benny’s, Demi Lovato’s “Confident” bursting from the car’s speakers. (I embark on approximately nothing without blasting this song first. Thankfully, my mom understands.) But my enthusiasm comes to an abrupt halt when I see waaay more cars in the parking lot than I expected, including a familiar 4Runner.

So much for Shannon not having the info to mock this non-date.

There’s a little less bounce in my espadrilled step when I let myself into the diner, even though Shannon whoops when I walk in and loudly proclaims what a cute cowgirl I make.

Thankfully, I’m saved from having to respond by Chase getting up like the gentleman he is and giving me one of those epic smiles. “You came!” he says, as if it were ever a question.

“How could I pass up a fried chicken sandwich with extra slaw?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shannon registering that Chase’s invite is why I’m here. I also see her flirting with Lucas Miller, which I guess explains why she is.

I am not looking forward to the hour of “How could you not tell me?” that will go down the instant I get home.

And speaking of conversations I’m not looking forward to, everyone jumps right back into the one they were having before I arrived, which was about Friday’s party and its mysterious hostess. “So, nobody knows if she has a boyfriend?” Keith Radcliffe asks.

The question sits in my stomach, heavy as a stone. It doesn’t help when Shannon pipes up, “Sure didn’t seem like it when she was dancing up on Linus Friday night.”

Ugh, Linus? Of all people? God, he’s the kind of guy who thinks negging is a legitimate social interaction. How do you go from me, or even Carter, to that?

“Linus is a douche,” says Keith, and I can’t argue with him there. “She can do way better. She’s got a bangin’ body.”

Okay, now Keith is a douche. Discussing a girl’s body in public is gross, and anyway, he’s barely even seen it. Like, yeah, OK, sure, you know what she looks like because you’ve seen her in a short skirt. Maybe don’t think you know her “bangin’ body” before you’ve ever come face-to-face with her hip bones because let me tell you, you don’t know jack shit.

“Hey, you OK?” Chase murmurs in my ear.

I blink out of my ragey hornball thoughts. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

“Because you’ve massacred my fries.”

I look down and see a ketchup-bloody pile of potato stumps scattered around a red basket coffin. “Whoops.” My cheeks fill with heat. “Sorry about that. Guess I’m hungrier than I thought. Where’s our waitress?”