Her friend lowers her phone at last and meets my eyes, and all the warmth seeps out of me. Her gaze is ice-cold, and her tone no friendlier. “You’re Caz’s girlfriend?” The question sounds almost like a threat. “Um …” I lick my dry lips. “I—” “Yeah, she is,” Caz answers for me, and—to everyone’s shock—slides a casual hand around my waist. Distantly, through the sensation of his skin against my dress, I remember the slide from my PowerPoint: No physical contact beyond casual shoulder-bumping and occasional hugging. “We’re actually on a date right now.”
