“McDonald’s?” I repeat, confused by the level of rapture she’s experiencing right now.

She makes direct eye contact with me for a moment, her expression dead serious. “It’s a sign. We can’t skip out on McDonald’s.”

She takes the next exit while I stare at her in bewilderment. “You’re really serious about McDonald’s,” I say.

“Oh yeah. Top three food options.” She lifts one hand and counts them off on her fingers. “Pastelitos. McDonald’s. Rice and beans.” She grins at me, tucking a dark curl behind her right ear. “Are you writing this down? Once I convince you to be friends with me, that info might be useful.”

“Shut up,” I say, my mouth wrinkling up as I suppress a smile. Was she always funny? I mostly remember her being annoying and sarcastic.

She takes us into the drive-through and orders two cheeseburgers and a large fries for us to share. When I try to take out my wallet, she waves me off. “My treat. It was my idea anyway.” She whips a pile of bills out of her wallet and fans them out in front of her face. They’re mostly singles, with a few fives thrown in there. “Plus, I’m still rolling in dough from my job this summer.” She fans herself with the money for emphasis.

“Were you a stripper?” I say before my brain catches up. Oh no, Shay. That’s not a funny joke. Why did you say that? Why why why? “Because . . . all the ones,” I add limply.

She snickers, sticking the money back into her wallet. “Waitress.”

Great. I’m going to go crawl into a hole and live there forever. She pulls up to the second window and pays for the food while I wallow in acute embarrassment. Glad to know Ana still makes me infinitely stupider with her presence, even when she’s being nice to me.

We demolish the food in record time, and I feel better after eating. By the time we pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I’m pleasantly energetic instead of jittery, and my headache has mostly gone away.

Ana glances at the clock display on the radio as she puts the car in park. “We got here pretty fast. I’m going to be super early to the studio today.”

“You’re going to dance tonight?” I ask.

She shrugs and opens the storage compartment between our seats. “Gotta keep in shape for my stripping career,” she says, bending over the compartment to dig through it.

I flush. “Oh. Yeah.”

Pausing her search, she lifts her head slightly and glances up at me through her dark eyelashes. Her face fills with wry amusement as she stares at me for a few seconds. I look down at my lap. Why does she have this weird habit of staring at people without saying anything?