I feel deflated for a second at the thought that his offer was just a joke. Of course he didn’t think I would actually want to try driving. And the more I think about it, I realize it’s a bad idea anyway. I would probably just kill us both.

We walk into Giovanni’s, and it’s dim and cozy from the flickering light of candles. Classic Italian music flows through the room, something cheesy with violins and accordions, and I have a flash of Dean and me as the dogs from Lady and the Tramp, our lips sliding together over one long slippery piece of spaghetti. I wonder if that’s actually possible, if anybody in real life has ever tried. It seems like the kind of thing Andrew would find funny, and suddenly I’m thinking about my lips sliding toward Andrew’s, and I push the thought from my head. I’m not supposed to be thinking about Andrew.

“Welcome to Giovanni’s.” A waitress appears. She looks about our age, and her gaze lingers on Dean just a little too long. It makes me nervous. “We have a corner booth open,” she says. “You want that?”

“Sure, whatever.” Dean shrugs. We follow her over to the corner.

“Thanks,” I say, sliding into the booth. Dean slumps down across from me, dropping his helmet and bag down onto the seat next to him.

He looks at the waitress. “Can we get some wine?”

She flushes pink and fiddles with her hair. “Oh, um. Are you old enough?”

“C’mon,” he says, cocking his head to the side.

Her voice wavers. “I’ll need to see some ID.”

“Sure.” He pulls out his wallet and fishes through it, handing her his license. She looks at it for a second and then hands it back. Then she turns to me.

“And you?”

I freeze. What does he expect me to do?

“She lost hers on the ride here.” He motions to his helmet on the seat. “We took the bike over and had a little spill. Her purse went everywhere. A bunch of her cards are missing. Gonna have to go back and look for them in the morning when it’s not so dark.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes flicking over to me and then back to Dean.

“I promise she’s old enough,” he continues. “Just turned twenty-one a few weeks ago.”

“April second?” I say, making up a date. The words come out as a question. I don’t know how Dean is so good at lying.

“Okay, I guess that’s all right,” she says, finally relenting. “Just don’t tell my manager. Which bottle do you want?”

“Red or white?” he asks me.