I hold my breath and take a small sip. When I breathe out I feel a rush of heat flood my chest. The taste is just as bad as I remember it—sweet and chemical at the same time. Do people actually like the taste of whiskey or is everyone just pretending?

“So how was your date?” Dean asks once I swallow.

“My date?” I ask, and then remember the text Danielle sent. “Right, my date.” I take another sip of whiskey just to stall. “I mean, like I said before, it was boring.” I’m trying to think of something to say, but of course I’ve drawn a huge blank. For a second my mind flashes to Andrew, the silly comment I made to him in art class, and then the worst possible answer falls out of my mouth. “He wouldn’t stop talking about . . . cheese.”

“Cheese,” Dean says, the corner of his mouth turned up. “Really?”

“Yup. He lives on a cheese farm. I mean . . . dairy farm. I mean, cows. You know how it is around here with all the cows.” Oh my god. My brain is actually malfunctioning. Dean’s eyes are twinkling with amusement and I know he’s enjoying witnessing my slow death. I point at his chest, trying to change the subject. “So what’s the deal with your shirts?”

He looks down. “They’re all movie directors.”

“Well, obviously,” I say, glad we’ve moved past my conversational glitch. “I mean, do you make them?”

“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” he answers, which isn’t really an answer at all. But I get what he means.

“You should make a Hitchcock one,” I say, filled with an overwhelming desire to touch him in some way.

“He’s your favorite, right?”

“I mean, he’s kinda messed up. But brilliant.” I take another sip. It doesn’t taste as bad this time, like my senses have been dulled. “Are any of them women? I just realized you don’t wear any women.”

“Wearing women. Sounds a bit Silence of the Lambs, don’t you think?”

“I’m serious.”

“I only wear my favorites.”

I want to say something about that, but he’s standing so close to me that I can see the freshly shaved stubble on his jaw, can almost feel his warm breath. I don’t want to challenge him and ruin the fizzling magic of this moment.

“Okay, how about Collins?”

“You’re a director?” He raises his eyebrows, an expression I hope means he’s impressed.

“I might be,” I say. “Someday. And then you can put me on your shirt.”

“Well, let me know when the time comes,” he says, leaning toward me, his voice low. “Because you’ll definitely be one of my favorites.”