FICTION – SHORT STORY SERIES

---

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #4
If she says “this isn’t a date,” it’s 100% a date. Don’t ruin it.

---

“So,” she said, tossing her greasy rag in the toolbox like a boss, “I owe you dinner.”

I tried to play it cool, even though my brain immediately burst into a confetti cannon. “You don’t owe me anything,” I said, knowing full well that yes, yes she absolutely did and dinner sounded like a dream.

“Okay, but I’m still getting you dinner. Not as a thank-you. Just… you know. Casual. Like friends.”

There it was. The dagger.

“Right. Totally. Friend dinner. My favorite kind of dinner,” I said, with the emotional grace of a man trying to pretend pizza doesn’t taste better when it comes with romantic tension.

She smiled like she could see straight through me. “Cool. There’s this taco truck I like. Cheap. Questionably licensed. But amazing.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Nothing says ‘healthy bonding’ like eating meat from a vehicle.”

An hour later, we were sitting on a curb, elbows bumping, holding greasy foil-wrapped masterpieces. She was already two tacos in. I was still trying to figure out how to bite mine without it completely disintegrating into my lap.

“You always eat this slow?” she asked, watching me with mild concern.

“I’m being strategic,” I said. “Every bite is a structural risk.”

She laughed. “You’re weird.”

I paused. “In a bad way?”

She tilted her head. “In a taco-anxious, coffee-faking, car-fixing kind of way.”

“So… like a charming disaster?”

“Exactly,” she said, raising her bottle of Jarritos. “To charming disasters.”

We clinked bottles. Mine fizzed over and spilled down my hand. Of course.

I wiped it on my jeans. “Classic me. Keeping the bar low, so I’m always exceeding expectations.”

She grinned. “You know this is kind of a date, right?”

My brain blue-screened.

“I mean,” she continued, casually licking hot sauce off her thumb, “you offered free labor, let me serve you questionable coffee, survived my car, and now you’re sitting on a curb eating tacos with me like it’s totally normal. You passed the test.”

“There was a test?”

“Oh yeah. The gnome was part of it.”

I blinked. “The gnome was a test?”

She nodded seriously. “He only approves of guys with good intentions and strong emotional stamina.”

“Well. That explains the pressure I’ve been feeling in my soul.”

She laughed again, and I swear it hit me harder than the tacos. It was like someone had tugged a thread that ran straight through me — tight, impossible to ignore.

I looked at her, trying to decide if this was the moment. The moment to claim some free will, throw caution to the wind, and say it.

But she beat me to it.

“So,” she said, “if we do this again, maybe we pick somewhere that doesn’t cause gastrointestinal roulette?”

“Are you asking me out?” I asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Would that freak you out?”

“Only in the best way.”

“Well, then.” She stood and offered me her hand. “Let’s call it a soft launch.”

I took it, still sitting. “Wait. Was that a farewell to the taco truck?”

“Oh, definitely not,” she said, pulling me up. “We’re just giving it a rest before we end up in a hospital.”

We walked back toward the cars in a quiet little row of footsteps, hers just ahead of mine. And yeah, maybe it wasn’t official. Maybe it was just tacos and teasing.

But this time, I didn’t pretend. It was a date.