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When we reach our home, the one I moved into when my little one-bedroom was no longer enough after a late night when my parents didn’t make it home, and I took on their roles, I thank the Lyft driver, then go.
As I’m walking up the steps to our building, waiting for the notification about leaving a tip, a text blinks up at me from Gage.
Gage: I took care of your Lyft, including the tip. Hope your sister is OK. Thanks for a fantastic night.
Oh, right. Everything happened so quickly, I’d forgotten he’d ordered the Lyft from his phone in the first place. I’d just rushed downstairs with him, and he’d held open the car door for me.
A rush of warmth fills my chest at the reminder.
I unlock the door, then return to something Amanda said earlier. “Hey, don’t feel bad about the mistake. Mix-ups happen. I’m the girl who has sent packages to the wrong address.”
She doesn’t know the details of what was in the package, but she doesn’t need to. She smiles my way regardless. “I guess mix-ups run in the family.”
“Maybe they do,” I say, then rub her back.
Once she’s had a glass of water and is settled into her bed, feeling better, I head to the kitchen and take a deep breath in the dark. I turn to the cupboard, grab a bar of dark chocolate with almonds and sea salt—it’s not even one of mine. It’s Lulu’s, the brand I saved all my allowances for when I was younger—and break off a small square.
I bite into it, letting the flavors flood my tongue and fill my mind. Smooth, a little salty, a tiny bit nutty. A reassurance in a storm of uncertainty.
I feel reassurance in a strange new way too. I might not have known exactly what to do with my emotions when I got that call, but right now, right here, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Somehow, I’ve figured out what to say to Amanda, how to help her, how to be there for her when she needed me to be.
That’s what matters.
But a romance with Gage?
Do I have the skills to balance that and everything else? In one night, he’s already sprinted miles ahead of other men I’ve dated, and I don’t even mean in the bedroom. Or not only in the bedroom, anyway.
I break off another small chunk of chocolate, then hold it in my cheek, letting it melt slowly as I flash back over dates and the short-lived romances of my twenties. There was Charles, the venture capitalist, who loved to play blackjack and took me to Vegas, where we went and lounged by the pool, then dined on fancy small plates at famous chefs’ restaurants. It felt romantic, but he never truly opened up, never told me about his family, never shared his fears. Before him was Jean-Pierre, my dashing French-Canadian lover who opened a wine shop here in San Francisco, and whisked me away on Wine Country weekends, where everything felt like falling in love. Except for the fact that I never knew what excited him, what drove him on, what made him who he was. I’m not sure he was capable of loving a person like he was a vintage Bordeaux.
Then, there’s Gage. A guy who plans a great date, executes it, and then actually shares some of his heart and soul with me. Telling me a little about his daughter, a little about himself, and a little about asking me out.
That’s rare for a first date. I want that. I crave that. But do I even know what to do with it right now in my chaotic life?
I don’t have the answer. Instead, I open my texts and reply to Gage, thanking him profusely.
Gage: Anytime. By the way, we should call it Special Edition.
It’s not until I get into bed that I realize what he means. And I can’t stop thinking about it all weekend long.
9
PILLOW TALK
Elodie
Elodie: Is this too crazy?
Gage: Yes. But I’m pretty sure crazy is good.
Elodie: You sure? I feel like you’re the responsible one.
Gage: And that makes you…the fun one?
Elodie: Yes, of course I’m the fun one. That’s why I’m asking YOU!
Gage: I think you meant to say responsible is hot.
Elodie: You just want me to call you the hot one. And we agreed we can’t do that anymore if we’re going into business.
