I didn’t have any more energy left to dig deeper into Franny’s Box of Icky Feelings. Quick, Franny, a subject change, I said to myself.

“Things have been so nuts I haven’t even told you about my walk to the subway with Hayes the other night.” I dangled this in front of them like a carrot.

At the mention of his name, they both stopped what they were doing to stare at me. For a quick second, they were frozen in that shocked look you give a friend who has held on to a juicy tidbit for way too long.

“Whad did you thay?” Lola said through a mouthful of Pirate’s Booty.

“Hayes walked me to the subway the other night, after we went all Spy Kids on your date.”

“And?!” Cleo gestured at me to keep going, splashing beer on her shirt as she did. “Damn it,” she muttered to herself, dabbing it with the edge of the towel she was sitting on. “I can’t believe you haven’t told us about this yet!”

“Didn’t we just all agree that my life has gone off the rails? I forgot!” I held up my hands defensively.

“Ahh, go on, please,” Lola said in a ridiculous fake British accent.

“I don’t know. It was fine,” I said honestly. “He grew up kinda near me. We talked about our families. Oh, and get this—he apologized for how weird he was during the interview.”

“And what did you say?” Lola urged me on.

“I let him off the hook. He seemed very sincere. It was sweet. He doesn’t seem as horrible as I originally thought.”

“So it was basically a date,” Cleo said excitedly.

“It was like a ten-minute walk!” I protested.

“I’ve been on dates that haven’t even lasted that long,” Lola snarked.

“Did he remind you that you’re not his type?” Cleo asked, scooting forward to sit closer.

“Yeah, how did Mr. Smooth Moneybags charm you this time?” Lola chimed in as she dug around the bottom of the Pirate’s Booty bag for crumbs.

“Look, I know this sounds crazy, but he’s kind of nice.”

I expected some sort of salty joke back from at least one of them, but they both just stared at me.

“What?” I said, staring back at them.

“You have the hots for Hot Suit.” Cleo said the words as if she were discovering the answer to a riddle, and she tacked on a little gasp at the end, for effect. “You had that motorcycle dream too, remember?”

“I just said he was nice! Because he’s nice! What’s wrong with me thinking he’s nice?” My voice got the teensiest bit higher.

“You just said ‘nice’ three times in a row.” Lola was also using the riddle-solving voice, slow and studious.

“So?” I waved them off defensively. “I can think he’s nice if I want.”