Chapter 8: I Am Really Bad At Picking Up Men

Chuck's not much of a conversationalist. Or maybe he's figured out that I couldn't name a single professional baseball player if my life depended on it. Either way, he doesn't say a word to me. And I, panicked and confused as I am, don't say a word to him. I feel like I should comment on the game, to at least try to make this work, but I know that I'll reveal my lie as soon as I open my mouth. And all I can think about is how Roman is watching me, waiting for me to make my move. The pressure is building with every passing second. I need to say something. Anything.

"What else do you like?" I ask him.

He's still looking at the TV. "Hm?"

"What else do you like? Besides baseball, I mean. And chili fries."

He shrugs, still watching the game. "Football. Basketball. Not really into hockey."

"Ah." Is he making this hard on purpose? Is he not interested in me after all? If not, then why did he invite me to sit down?

I have the urge to look back at Roman again, as if somehow his expression