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But Dylan makes me want to stop overthinking.

He makes me want to see what happens when I stop gripping so tightly to what’s safe and step into something unknown.

I don’t know if that’s enough.

But for the first time in a long time, I actually want to find out.

“Earth to Addison,” Maggie singsongs, waving a flaming tiki-torch like an airport marshal. “You’re doing the dreamy-stare thing again.”

I jolt. “I am not. I’m… judging your potato salad.”

“Uh-huh.” She plunks herself down, pulls my plate over and inspects the untouched burger. “Verdict?”

“Creamy yet structurally sound,” I mutter.

“So, where were we? Ah, yes — Addy and her age-inappropriate infatuation.” Brett smirks.

“Not inappropriate!” I protest. “He’s twenty-nine, not twelve.”

Maggie pats my knee. “She’s defensive. Progress!”

Brett’s eyes gleam. “Have you considered… a little research?”

“Like what, a background check?”

“Like a date.”

I choke again, my windpipe staging a protest.

Maggie leans in, conspiratorial. “Double date. Next Friday. Safety in numbers.”

“I’m busy Friday.”

“Doing what?”

“I’ll… probably need to alphabetize chair sashes.”

Brett snorts. “Emergency alphabetizing? Come on, Addy.”

I stare into my drink like it’s a portal, ready to suck me away to another world and away from this conversation.

“What do you want from me? I don’t want to make a fool out of myself like the last time I dated a younger man.”

Silence. We all remember too well how that went. The cheating. The ridicule. Never again.

He softens. “Listen, Addison. I was terrified to ask Maggie out in college — she was definitely out of my league. But one night she caught me singing Céline Dion into a mop handle after closing shift. She laughed so hard she snorted. Romantic, right?” He grins. “Point is: sometimes the embarrassing stuff is the glue.”

A ping vibrates in my back pocket. My stomach cartwheels.

Dylan.

Pie-slice IOUs still valid? We could turn it into a pie tasting for the fundraiser, professional meeting — of course. Also, do you prefer cherry or rogue-hot-dog flavor?

I stare. Brett peeks. “Cherry, obviously.”

Ah-Ah! Cherry. No rogue hot dog-flavored pie, please!

I hit send before courage leaks out my fingertips.