"You didn't give me the wrong address?" I ask.

"No, isn't this place great?"

I steel myself with the assurance that I was asked on a date by a nice young man and will see it through. Gosh, that sounds old-fashioned. I can be progressive. I am a feminist. I pass no judgement. There are hundreds of restaurants in Manhattan and these women choose to work here. It's not objectification, but an empowered choice to serve hamburgers and hotdogs while topless. I take a seat.

"So," I start, but Tristen doesn't hear me as he ogles the employees.

I cringe when one calls, "Hot plates coming through."

I grimace when a few college age guys at a nearby table leer and say, "More like hot tits."

I keep my mouth shut. I'm sure these women can handle themselves. I fan myself, reaching for the water the waitress brought over before I arrived. They must keep it warm in here for the girls since the outdoor temperature hovers somewhere in the low twenties.

Tristen finishes his beer and I ask, "Do you come here often?"

"A few times a week. My ex works here," he says, pointing to a girl with shiny, jet black hair and boobs that could give someone a black eye.

Oh. Not sure how to respond I add, "Were you waiting long?"

"Long enough to get buzzed," he says with a belch.

Our waitress, with giant, jiggling breasts comes over. "Ready to shake?" she asks.

My expression of discomfort must translate to obvious bewilderment.

"That means are you ready to place your order," she says, cocking her hip, her breast just there, at eye level.

After a brief look at the menu I ask, "Do you have any specials?"

She leans over the table, brushing my shoulder with her boob and taps the plastic specials sign. "We're just out of the fried pickles. Those always go fast."

I croak out my order for a simple burger and fries and loosen my scarf.

I. Can't. Even.

Chapter 28.

Something Else I'm the only female in the room with a shirt on. In addition to keeping the servers warm, perhaps they keep the temperature turned up in here so hapless women who find themselves in Chester's Buns and Shakes will tear off their tops in a fit of heat exhaustion.

I survey the surrounding tables and see a garden variety of men: guys in their mid-twenties at bachelor parties, a few one-tops with smarmy, oily grins, dudes talking sports, and college guys out for kicks. Then there's my Book Boyfriend who, while in the bookstore, appeared to be a cute, innocent nerd dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. However, here he appears more like a questionable character in the theatrical version of this dating dare.

I clear my throat. "So, um, what kinds of books do you like to read?"

He shrugs lazily. "High-fantasy occasionally, but mostly I work at the bookstore because it's a low stress job. I get bored and pickup whatever book is closest to the counter."

"By the way, you didn't charge me correctly for the books earlier.

His gaze follows a server as her tractor beam boobs hold the attention of nearly every male in the room. "What was that?" he asks after she passes by, returning his attention to me. Sort of.

I repeat my concern.

He grins magnanimously. "Think of it as a complimentary hit against the trappings of capitalism."

"What about the bookstore owners?"

"Screw those assholes. They don't give me paid sick days. And believe me, I get sick a lot. Well, hungover, but same thing."

"And the authors? That's how they make their living."

"Rich assholes. Whatever. It doesn't matter."

I'm about to argue all of this when a pair of cymbals crash together from somewhere behind me. The thudding bass of club music pumps through the speaker system. A nearby table of guys erupts into cheers as the girls-all of them like a conga line of topless babes-do their very best Marilyn Monroe version of Happy Birthday. Meanwhile, a woman dressed as Marilyn, blond wig, patent beauty mark, voluptuous breasts, and a daringly short skirt brings up the rear.

"This is my favorite part," Tristen says.

The Marilyn lookalike scales a podium and does a strip tease for the birthday boy.

As we know, I'm no prude, Spencer can attest to that. However, this is too much. I can't look.

Our meals haven't arrived and I worry the kitchen help are also topless-inviting my curiosity about the health codes Bash mentioned-when Tristen says, "I'm going to pop out for a smoke. Be right back. Keep my food warm, babe."

Babe?

He shuffles away and a mondo pair of cantaloupes stare me down. "Did you want some more water?" the server asks.

I dry swallow. "Yes, please." I'm tempted to interview her about her reasons for working here, when my phone vibrates.

I assume Katya's checking on me and I prepare a desperate text along the lines of Rescue me, please, but it's from Carrick. What are you doing tonight?

Are we at the point where he casually asks me what I'm up to or is he doing reconnaissance and I need to arm myself? I type. On a date. Then erase it and then retype, but before I can rethink it, I hit send.

During the delay in his response, which I assume he's doing since his text bubble dots blink, two big plates, mine piled high with French fries, arrives.

I stuff several in my mouth, still stressed about my surroundings, Tristen's presence and absence, and Carrick's text, which continues with Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you.

Halfway through my burger, I'm annoyed Tristen still hasn't returned and that I'm somehow still here. I'm ready to leave and text Carrick back Actually, he stepped out for a smoke. I add a cringing emoji.

His answer is immediate. So... not such a hot date?

Oh, you could say it's hot. I stealthily snap a picture of one of the topless servers with enormous surgically enhanced globes that defy gravity.

He texts They're not the way I remember them and you should probably make it clear to your date that sending me sexy texts doesn't mean anything. You don't want to piss him off. He adds the winking emoji.

A smile brims on my lips despite the fact that I'm not sure what kind of relationship we could ever expect to resurrect.

Then he adds If you're taking a survey, I prefer the natural look.

Good to know.

In all seriousness, if you need an exit strategy I've got 'em. Let's see, your grandmother clogged the toilet and she needs your plunger, stat. Or you forgot you promised your nephew you'd help him with his science project, or you're worried you left the coffee maker/curling iron/oven on.

His text bubble blinks again. Or you have to meet up with an old friend and have a drink. Or pie. I could go for some of that chocolate cream pie. Or I could meet you wherever you are and make this night even more interesting.

I sigh and my smile is as big and crazy as all the guys' leering at the topless servers. Shouting comes from the kitchen and then Tristen crashes into his chair, coughs-not bothering to cover his mouth-and starts griping about staff rules.

I only follow about half of what he's saying, but glean he met his ex-girlfriend during her break, hence the excuse to go out for a smoke, and they had an argument.

"I told her I'd take her back if she stops blowing Brody-that's my roommate."

I search Tristen's face to be sure I haven't entered a modern day high-fantasy alternate reality theatrical production. He gives me a dopy shrug.

Where I thought we'd get literary and talk about Yeats and Austen, I find a guy who steals books. Where we might have recounted our favorite book hangovers, here's a guy who considers a beer hangover worthy of a sick day. Where I wanted to compare book to film adaptations, this dude asked me to meet him so he could make his topless girlfriend jealous.

Palm. Forehead.

Now I get it.

I lean in and whisper conspiratorially, "Tristen, which one is she?"

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend."

"Well, I dated her," he says, pointing at a brunette. "And her." He gestures to a girl with twin tankards of beer barely concealing her breasts. "And that's Starr."

"The one who won't take you back?" I ask.

He nods glumly.

I get to my feet and call, "Excuse me, Starr." Several pairs of eyes land on me and there's a discernable hush in the room. She walks over, her eyes narrowed, and boobs swaying to the beat of the music.

"He's not worth it," I say, irritably. Then turn to Tristen and add, "And don't invite women to a topless restaurant to make your ex jealous. It's rude." I toss down my napkin and stalk out of Chester's to a chorus of Oohs and hear someone say, "Harsh, bro."

The cold air burns my lungs. I pull out my phone. Where do you want to meet for pie?

In under a half hour, a perfect slice of chocolate cream pie rests temptingly on the table between Carrick and me. As I wonder who's going to take the first bite, he reaches for the fork and a dense morsel of rich dark chocolate, topped with a dollop of fluffy cream and chocolate shavings appears an inch from my mouth.

I open.

He feeds me.

I close my eyes. I chew.

We've unofficially called a truce over chocolate.

At last, there is peace in Navy-Carrick land.

At least for now.

I blink my eyes and his gunmetal blue eyes lay down their weapons. They're oceans of calm and kindness. Maybe I could forgive him. Then I snap to. I'm not that easy. I'm the girl who stands up in a topless restaurant and tells a guy he's a creep. I'm a girl who's all but locked up her heart and thrown away the key. I'm never forgiving him or myself.

I straighten in the vinyl booth, sitting up taller. All he's given me is a bite of pie.

Yet, I feel a softening. An opening, from that strange place, deep within that warmed to Katya's dare all those weeks ago.

I smile and take another bite. It's a superb slice of pie.

In short order, I've outlined the sordid tale of what's likely to go down in the history books as the worst date ever, at least for me. "I don't recommend going to Chester's, unless you're into that kind of thing. The burger wasn't even very good. Though I didn't try a shake."

"I told you already, I like things to be a little more organic." He clears his throat. There's a smolder behind his eyes, but it disappears when he takes a sip of coffee.

"The worst part is he stole one of your books."

"One of my books?"

I explain about my bag of books and the receipt.

"What exactly made you go out with him?" Carrick asks, holding out the last bite of pie for me.

I capture it in my mouth, relishing the perfect balance of crust, cream, and chocolate.

Carrick leans over, dabbing the edge of my lip. "You had something there," he says, wiping it away.

The strange and bold urge to lick his finger pops into my mind. I would never, but a smile blooms on my face nonetheless.

"What?" he asks.

I shake my head because not only would I never do that, I'd never tell him I had the thought. I tuck it away to find many more like it, most of them recorded between the ages of fourteen and seventeen and three-quarters.

As if reading my mind he says, "Remember that night it was raining and everyone planned to go to the movies, then a few people canceled-I think Marshall was sick-so we decided to meet up at Sal's for bowling, but I don't know what happened-you and I ended up in my driveway."

"We sat in your car and listened to music for hours." It was basically the night of my dreams, being left alone with Carrick in a storm, with music playing low and neither one of us wanting to brave the pelting rain to run in the house where Claire and her boyfriend were waiting for us. We talked for hours and hours.

Carrick hides a grin. "Damn the gearshift."

"Huh?"

"Inconvenient placement." His lips quirk.

Our eyes meet. Endless summer sky. I recall the gearshift between the two seats.

"I wanted to. I always wanted to," he whispers, flexing his fingers and then examining his palms.