I chuckle then take a bite of my own. Unlike Casey, I chew most of it before answering. “I’m pretty sure sandwiches don’t qualify as culinary,” I say.
“Says you,” he mumbles.
We both concentrate on finishing our food for the next few minutes, an early afternoon Thunder game playing on the radio, filling our silence. Casey finishes first, crumpling up the paper for his sandwich then pushing away from the table, his hands folded behind his head while he watches me.
“So are you going to wear that?” he asks. I look down at my apron, my nametag, green store-shirt, and gray jeans with flour handprints on my legs.
“I’m at work, jack-ass. What else would I wear?” I ask, standing and picking up our trash, encouraging Casey to follow me out to the deli. Chuck will only be distracted for so long.
“Yeah, you’re at work now, but I meant later,” he says. Smart-ass is stamped all over his face.
“And what is later?” I ask, not sure I really want to know.
“You’ve got a date,” he says, reaching across me to grab two more slices of pepperoni before moving to the other side of the counter.
“First, stop that—your hands are fucking disgusting. And two, I do not have a date,” I say, very firm about both.
“I washed my hands,” he says.
“When? Last year?” I laugh.
“Ha, ha, ha!” He exaggerates each word. “And you do have a date. Her name’s…” He stops talking so he can pull a paper from his back pocket. He has to unfold it, which seems to take him for-fucking-ever! “Tracey. That’s right!”
I snatch the paper from his hands and gaze at a badly-printed photo of a girl that looks like she’s maybe my age. Her hair is blue, though I think maybe that’s because Casey’s printer is jacked. I look at the top of the page and catch the logo and name for the website, FindYourNextGreatLove.com.
“Oh hell no,” I say, tossing the paper back to him. I am not going on a date with someone Casey needs to unfold to remember. I’m not going on a date with anyone!
“What? You don’t think Tracey’s pretty?” he asks, picking the paper up from the floor and looking at it closely. “She’s a nursing student at McConnell. A junior who likes going to concerts, riding horses, and Thunder basketball. I mean come on…what’s not to love?”
“Casey, what were you thinking?” I ask. I’m actually a little pissed off he set up a dating profile without telling me, unless…he wasn’t joking that day at his house. “Wait…how many sites am I on?”
“Only this one,” he says. He won’t look at me.
“Case,” I warn.
“Okay, and maybe one or two others,” he admits. I push back to lean against the opposite counter, on instinct my hands pull at my hair. “You shouldn’t touch your hair while you’re working with food, man. Really…that’s unsanitary.”
“I’m about to punch you,” I say, shaking my head.
“Nah…you love me,” he chuckles. I really want to hit him. And right now—no. No, I don’t love him.
“You need to fix this date thing, or whatever. Just go wherever I’m supposed to meet this…”
“Tracey,” he fills in her name, a cocky grin spreading across his face.
I sigh. “Just go and tell her there was a mistake. Tell her there was a glitch or something. Or better yet…you date her.”
“No can do,” he says, pulling his backpack up from the place he slid it next to the counter, tucking his arms under both straps. “I have a date with Holly.”
“I thought Eli was seeing Holly?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head hurts now.
“He was. Turns out she wasn’t giving me free coffee because I was his roommate though. She was hooking me up because she wants some of this,” he says, shrugging at himself. I’m not even sure how you shrug at yourself.
“Wow,” I say, mocking his confidence. Casey isn’t a bad-looking dude. He has a style—one of those super-hip looks with tight jeans, Converse shoes, and old concert T-shirts from bands his parents liked. “Not cool to Eli, dude. Not cool.”
“He doesn’t care. She’s got a lot of sisters, and I guess he met one that he likes better,” Casey shrugs. What the fuck is wrong with dating today?
“Okay, well, before you go see Holly, stop in at wherever you said I’d be, and fix this,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m sorry man,” he says through twisted lips, pretending he really cares that he can’t help me out of the mess he made. “I’m late as it is. She’ll meet you at Sally’s at six. I made it a dinner date, so that way…ya know…if it doesn’t go well or whatever. Or…if it goes really well.”