He nods, gives a knowing smile.

“What?” I say.

He shrugs.

“No. You gave me a look,” I say, crossing my arms.

“No I didn’t.”

“I don’t date liars.” Anymore.

He laughs. “Fine. If you must know, I don’t think there’s anything you could possibly do to screw this up.”

I can’t help but smile. “Oh, you shouldn’t have said that out loud.” Good-looking, smart, funny. And now sweet. So quit waiting for your purse to ring, stupid.

“You might remember that you forced me to say it out loud. But don’t worry. I’m not superstitious.”

“I’m not either.”

The drive to Atlantic City is just over an hour, and we pass it by playing Twenty Questions. Mark is the youngest of four brothers, wants to be either a physicist or an animator at Disney World—he promises to decide before he graduates college on his football scholarship—and his most embarrassing moment was when he walked in on his parents while they were doing the deed. Last week.

His questions for me are almost the same, word for word. Except the one he asks when we pull into the parking lot along the boardwalk strip. “Question number nineteen is, Who keeps texting you tonight?’”

Here we go again. Since Mark seems to saturate the air with easygoing, the whirlpool in my stomach had turned into no more than a swirl, as powerless as a flushed toilet, even when my purse beeped. But now that swirl is more like an island-swallowing vortex. Things are going too well tonight to ruin it with the truth, but since this could be the first of many dates with Mark, a lie would ruin it, too. “It’s Galen.”

Mark takes a sharp breath. “Okay. So I’m ditching my original question number twenty for a new question number twenty: Should I be worried about Galen?”

I laugh. “In what way?”

“Well, in any way, I guess. For instance, he’s a big guy. Does he know how to fight? Does he know how to shoot a gun? And did you tell him where we were going tonight?”

“No. Why?”

“Because he’s standing outside your window.”

My gaze whips around to settle on Galen standing inches from the truck, arms crossed. Mark is courteous enough to roll down the window for me, since I’m too stunned to move, talk, or breathe.

“Emma, can you please come talk to me for a minute?” Galen says, eyes hard.

“Hey, Galen. How’s it going, man?” Mark adds a little edge to his normally friendly tone.

“Mark.” Galen nods, jaw tight.

“Kind of surprised to see you, man. Are you here with anyone?” Mark is good at BS.

“In fact, I am. I’m here with Emma.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“She’s my girlfriend. I thought I’d made that clear before, Mark.”

Mark chuckles. “Well, I’m not sure where you’re from, but in this country, when one party breaks up, they both do. Learned that one the hard way myself, so I feel your pain, man.”

“Not yet,” Galen mutters.

“I’m sorry? What did you say?” By the sound of it, Mark really didn’t hear him. By the look on Galen’s face, he wasn’t really meant to. But I heard it. And I know what he meant.

“He didn’t say anything,” I tell Mark, finally able to move my mouth other than in the direction of hanging open.

“Yes, he did, Emma,” Mark whispers to me, patting my leg. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle this.” Leaving his hand there, he calls around me to Galen, “Now what did you just say? Or is it not worth repeating?”

It feels like hot lava is oozing over me. That, along with a sense of dread. When I turn back, I’m not surprised when my nose almost touches Galen’s through the truck window. But he’s not looking at me. Mark seems unaffected by the glower. Galen talks through clenched teeth. “I said not yet. You haven’t even begun to feel pain. Yet. But if you don’t take your hand off her leg—”

I open the truck door. Galen steps back to let me out.

“Emma, this is insane. You don’t have to talk to him. I can hold my own in a fight if he wants to push it that far,” Mark says for Galen to hear.

Football player that he is, I doubt Mark has ever been beaten with a steel pipe, which is exactly what Galen’s Syrena fists will feel like on his face. I give him an apologetic smile. “It will only take a second. I’ll be right back, okay?”

As I step away from the truck, Galen slams the door shut. “Actually, Mark, it will take more than a second. She’s coming with me.”

Mark swings his own door open and meets us by the tailgate. “Why don’t we ask Emma who she’s coming with? I mean, it’s her choice, right?”

The look Galen gives me is clear: Take care of this, or I will. Or maybe it’s more like, It would be my pleasure to take care of this. Either way, I don’t want Mark taken care of.

Standing between them, the testosterone-to-air ratio is almost suffocating. If I pick Galen, the chances of Mark ever calling me again are as good as Galen eating a whole cheesecake by himself. If I choose Mark, the chances of Galen not wielding his built-in brass knuckles are as good as Rayna giving someone a compliment.

My desire to salvage this date with Mark is almost as strong as my desire to salvage his face from certain disfigurement. But salvaging the date as opposed to his face would be selfish in the long run. I sigh in defeat. “I’m sorry, Mark.”