She's been in a state of nervous excitement all day.
He kissed her. Well, technically, she kissed him. But he kissed her back. With tongue. According to Cosmo, that constitutes french kissing.
She's taken the 'he likes me, he likes me not' quiz, too, multiple times, and she's pretty sure he likes her.
But.
Why hasn't he called her? He's supposed to call her, right? The guy calls the girl, doesn't he?
Maybe she should call him.
Biting her lip, she types his number into her phone. She goes so far as to press 'send.' But she chickens out after the first ring.
Finally, she takes a deep breath, gives herself a brief pep talk ('Come on, Edison! Suck it up! Live in the moment! Just do it!'), and calls him.
It's ringing.
What if he doesn't pick up? She begins composing a voicemail message in her head.
He picks up.
"Jeff!" Wincing at her over-exuberance, she steadies her voice. "It's Annie."
"Hey."
'Hey'? That's it? They share a beautiful, passionate kiss ('French kiss,' she reminds herself), and that's all she gets?
She's slightly put out, but she continues. "I was thinking – Do you want to get coffee – or something?"
There's a long pause. Mortified, she opens her mouth to take it back, when he answers at last.
"Okay."
Giddily, she rummages in her closet for a suitable outfit. Eventually, she settles on a white sundress, a pair of strappy sandals, and just a touch of lip-gloss.
She practically skips downtown.
She's been sitting in the café for ten minutes before Jeff breezes in, looking as calm and cool as ever.
"Jeff!"
He slips into the chair across from her, his ray-ban sunglasses still intact. A waitress sidles up to him to take his order, but he says "I'm good" and dismisses her with a wave of his hand.
An uncomfortable silence ensues.
They make to speak at the same time and break off, laughing nervously.
"Listen, Annie," Jeff resumes. "What happened last night was a mistake."
Her heart sinks. She tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice, but a small, shrill "oh!" escapes her.
(Her eyes flicker, and he tightens his jaw – and his resolve; he's got his speech planned out, and he'll be damned if he's going to let her take him down with her Disney Face™.)
"You're nineteen. You're barely nineteen. And I'm thirty-three. I'm old enough to be your father. Kind of. A year ago, this whole thing would've landed me on Dateline! And Britta would yell at me and Shirley would go all mom on me and Abed would compare me to some sleazy old man character from some movie and your parents would kill me and – and I'd just end up hurting you, because, c'mon, let's face it, I'm a douchebag."
He's more than a little hysterical at this point. He lets out a breath like he's gotten something off his chest, and then he takes a long drink of her iced tea.
Annie stares at him.
It's true. It's all true. Britta and Shirley would never let up, and she can already hear Abed telling Jeff "You're like Sean Connery in any of his films."
"Let's forget about it, okay?"
After a moment, she rolls her eyes and sighs, resigned. "Okay."
He leans forward conspiratorially. "And let's keep it to ourselves, okay? Our little secret. On the DL. Discretion is the better part of … something."
"Valor."
"Whatever. Just – just be discreet."
"Be discreet. Got it."
Jeff slurps up the rest of Annie's iced tea, straw in the corner of his mouth. He throws her a goodbye nod, looks around shiftily, and stalks off.
She slumps in her seat.
She had such high hopes this morning, and now they've been dashed to pieces. He doesn't want to be with her. Well, of course he doesn't want to be with her. She's a little girl with a little girl crush, while he's experienced. Even if he does want to be with her (the romantic, butterflies-and-rainbows part of her still thinks he does), it isn't going to happen.
At any rate, she's figured one thing out: this is the last time she ever follows Cosmo's advice.