My brain immediately corrects this piece of information. She was also wearing the emerald ring her grandparents gave her for her sixteenth birthday, bought for her in Paris. Plus, she always wears her hamsah-and-Jewish-star necklace underneath her clothing, and that was a bat mitzvah gift from her mom. They’re silly facts, but knowing them reminds me that it’ll be a while before Shannon can surpass everything I know about Jasmine. Because, apparently, I’ve created a competition in my head, and I’m not going down without a fight.

“Why don’t I invite her here?” Shannon continues, pulling out her phone. “Keith can lay on the charm right now.”

The only part of me that doesn’t want him to call her bluff is the part that wants to know if Shannon really has Jasmine’s phone number. Thankfully, Keith is a total coward and says his romantic moves are not meant for a greater audience. While everyone’s teasing him, the food arrives, and thankfully, the conversation changes to things like scouts, college applications, and Homecoming. I swear Chase squeezes my thigh when the latter comes up.

Homecoming on Chase Harding’s arm? I’m not sure I’ve allowed myself to dream that high. (That’s a lie—I have quite literally had this dream many, many times, and I always wake up in a terrible mood when I realize it’s just the work of my horny brain. It is item number two on my high school bucket list, right behind “prom on Chase Harding’s arm.”) But now he’s here, ordering me a fried chicken sandwich with extra slaw and squeezing my thigh and making no secret of the fact that he’s interested. It’s all so fast I’m starting to get paranoid Shannon’s behind it, like she’s paid him to make my senior year special or something. Which is ridiculous, because honestly, I don’t really lack for confidence, but how else do I explain such a huge change?

“You still up for ice cream after this?” His low voice tickles my ear and beyond, and suddenly, I wouldn’t care if my own mother was paying him for this.

“Absolutely,” I say, and this time when his hand squeezes my thigh, it stays put.

As expected, I get an eyebrow waggle and a mouthed “Call me” from Shannon when Chase and I take off after dinner. It’s surreal that I’m already getting to know his car, like the way the AC vents need to be jiggled and how classic rock always fills the air within seconds of him starting the car. That he’ll tap the beat on the steering wheel any time a Rolling Stones song comes on, and he won’t do air guitar when it’s Black Sabbath, but his fingers will twitch like he wants to and is controlling himself in front of me.