My phone buzzed on the table, and I lunged for it with embarrassing speed. But it wasn't Micah—it was Viola.
How are we feeling about tonight? Scale of one to ten, where one is "totally calm" and ten is "might actually vibrate out of my skin"?
I laughed despite myself, some of the tension releasing from my shoulders. Viola had been texting me periodically all day, checking in with the kind of casual persistence that I was learning to recognize as genuine friendship rather than intrusion.
Solid 8, I typed back.Possibly 8.5. I've reorganized my herb storage twice and I'm currently drowning in clothing options.
Her response came immediately:Okay first of all, BREATHE. Second, what are your top three options? Send pics.
I hesitated. This was the kind of thing friends did, wasn't it? Asked for opinions on outfits, shared the mundane details of their lives. It still felt foreign, like speaking a language I'd learned from books but never practiced aloud. Viola had shownup with pie. Had sat at this very table and told me she wanted to be my friend, really my friend, not just an acquaintance I saw in town. I'd said I would try.
I snapped photos of my three strongest contenders, the green sweater with dark jeans, a cream-colored thermal with my favorite worn flannel over it, and a soft gray pullover that was probably too casual but felt like being wrapped in a cloud.
Option Two,Viola responded within seconds.The flannel says "I made an effort but I'm not trying too hard" and it'll look adorable with your hair. Plus layers = smart for outdoor nighttime activities.
I typed a response quickly:How do you know what my hair looks like?
A second later a response came back, causing me to snort at the quick response:I’m assuming you're wearing it down because you always wear it up and tonight is special. Am I wrong?
She wasn't wrong. I'd been planning to leave it down, had even spent twenty minutes this morning trying to coax it into some semblance of intentional waves rather than its usual chaotic tumble.
You're not wrong, I typed back admitting it to her.
Her response was quickThen trust me. Option two. And Daphne?
I gave a smile giving a response: Yeah?
A second later my phone buzzed again:He already likes you. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show up.
The words hit somewhere soft, somewhere I hadn't realized was still tender. You just have to show up. Such a simple concept, and yet it felt revolutionary. For five years, I'd avoided showing up, to friendships, to community events, to anything that might require me to be seen. Showing up meantvulnerability. Meant risk. Meant the possibility of rejection. I was showing up tonight. Had been showing up, slowly, piece by piece, ever since that morning on the porch when Micah had sat beside me and offered honesty instead of platitudes.
Thank you, I typed back, meaning it more than two words could possibly convey.
The phone buzzed again:Anytime. Now go get ready and HAVE FUN. I want details tomorrow.
I set down the phone and looked at Option two, the cream thermal and the soft blue flannel, faded from years of washing but still my favorite. Viola was right. It was comfortable, practical, and just dressy enough to show I'd thought about it without screaming that I'd spent three hours obsessing.
Which I had…but Micah didn't need to know that. I carried the chosen outfit to my bedroom and laid it out on the bed, then stood there for a moment, breathing. The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, and I could hear birds singing in the garden, cardinals, from the sound of it, their sharp whistles cutting through the quiet.
This was really happening. Tonight, I would lie on a blanket under the stars with Micah, watching meteors streak across the sky. The thought made my stomach flip with a combination of terror and anticipation that I was learning to recognize as excitement.
When was the last time I'd been excited about something? Really, genuinely excited, not just satisfied or content? I couldn't remember. Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped letting myself want things. Wanting led to disappointment. Hoping led to hurt. Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to reach for something and have it slip through your fingers.
But here I was, wanting. Hoping. Reaching. It was terrifying. It was also, I was starting to realize, the only way to actually live.
I showered and dressed with more care than I'd taken in years, actually bothering with the nice-smelling lotion Viola had given me and taking time to dry my hair properly instead of just letting it air-dry into chaos. The face that looked back at me from the mirror was familiar but somehow different—there was color in my cheeks, brightness in my eyes, a softness around my mouth that I hadn't seen in a long time.
I looked like someone who was looking forward to something. The knock came at exactly nine o'clock. Of course it did. Micah was nothing if not precise.
I gave myself one last look in the mirror, took a deep breath, and went to open the door. He stood on my porch in jeans and a dark button up shirt, a jacket slung over one arm and a genuine smile softening his usually serious features. His green eyes swept over me, not in an assessing way, but like he was cataloging details, memorizing the moment. The last of the daylight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the slight wave in his dark hair, the breadth of his shoulders.
"Hi," I managed, suddenly breathless.
"Hi." His smile widened just a fraction. "You look nice. The flannel suits you."
"Thanks. You're..." I gestured vaguely at all of him. "Also nice. You look nice too."
Smooth, Daphne. Very smooth.
