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head to toe, I began to feel silly.
    The bell rang and startled me. My knees buckled. “Oh my God!”
    Coaxing my nervous system to simmer down, I meditated. Just breathe . Be cool . Don’t trip . Act normal . Without further hesitation, I skedaddled down the stairs. My fists were balled tightly to dry the sweat. With my hand clamped on the doorknob, I took one more deep breath. Rhythmically, I exhaled and slowly turned my wrist. I paused. I prayed. The door creaked open. Scooter smiled. I melted. He wore jeans, a polo shirt, and a pair of Pumas.
    He opened his arms and stepped toward me. Our bodies met. He wrapped his arms around me, “Are you going to invite me in or what?”
    His presence made me speechless. I inhaled and trapped his scent in my lungs. Afraid to let go, I swallowed. How was I going to survive the whole evening? Finally I was resuscitated and exhaled, “C’mon in.”
    He ended our embrace and walked in. He paced in short steps around the living room, commenting, “So this is how you’re livin’?”
    He nodded approvingly. Then, he put his hand out to give me five. “You’re doing all right Ms. Jabowski.”
    He was calm, composed. I stood bashful and nervous in my own home. To alleviate the awkwardness, I asked if he wanted a drink. He shook his head no. Still, I rushed into the kitchen and mixed my version of the Royal Red Apple Martini. I took a gulp and asked casual questions from afar. “So, have you had a good weekend?”
    He responded with one-word answers. “Yeah.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œDid you hang out with any of your old friends?”
    â€œNo.”
    I slipped past him. As I scampered up the steps, I announced, “I have to grab my purse. I’ll be back.”
    I glanced in the mirror again and sprayed Gucci perfume on my hot spots. I mouthed, “Taylor, work your magic.”
    After taking a few more gulps of my drink, I touched up my makeup. Then, I skipped down the stairs and put my glass in the sink. My body was warm, but I tried to remain cool. “Okay. I’m ready.”
    He opened the front door and pointed. “You first.”
    Indecisively, I stepped toward him, than backward. He chuckled. “Um, I’m trying to remember if I put my keys in my purse. Uh. You go ahead out. I need to set the alarm.”
    He smiled and stepped out of the door, closing it behind him. I took another deep breath before setting the alarm. Then, I stepped out of the house and admired him standing patiently at the end of my walkway. When I got closer to him, I noticed his old car. “Oh my God. You still have Shameka.”
    Shameka was a 1991 charcoal Honda Civic that Scooter’s parents bought him the summer before senior year. Scooter smiled and shook his head. “I can’t get rid of Shameka.” He tapped the hood. “This is my baby girl.”
    â€œYeah, she was always number one.”
    He punched my cheek softly, and said, “Whatever. You were number one.”
    â€œAre we driving Shameka?”
    â€œHell yeah, we’re driving Shameka.”
    Shameka was spotless. “Did you drive this car from Connecticut?”
    He stopped and looked at me as if I’d smoked some weed. “Girl, my father takes care of Shameka. He keeps her clean for when I visit.”
    When he started the car, the engine hesitated a little. I raised my eyebrows. It coughed for a few moments. This car didn’t sound like it could make it out of my development. The automatic seatbelt rapidly came up and choked me. I laughed. “I forgot that cars used to have these stupid seatbelts.”
    We replayed our Shameka stories during the ride. Unconsciously, I rested my hand on top of Scooter’s on the gearshift. When I finally realized it, I snatched it back. Before I could pull away, he grabbed my wrist. “Keep it there.”
    When we arrived at Dave and