But for now, I let myself savor the disaster I’ve made, the strange, impossible hope at the center of it, the way she walked away and then smiled at me over her shoulder.
I am in so much trouble.
And I have never felt more alive.
11
OUR FIRST REAL DATE
SIMONE
It’s barely dark when I ring the bell, but the sky already has that smoked-glass look, the kind that makes street lamps seem like they’re underwater. I’m clutching a salad from Trader Joe’s, a bottle of wine Andie said was “actually not that bad,” and the keys to my own nervous system, which is currently firing in every direction. I almost don’t recognize the house at first—Liam’s block is all stately old bricks, with postage stamp yards and hedges trimmed into strict compliance—but his is different. Modern, but not gross about it. No dumb lawn art, just tall windows and a black-painted door that makes it look like it swallows light for fun.
I take a deep breath and collect myself. Hair neat? Check. Lipstick glossy? Check check. My mind in place? Sadly, no check.
The door opens before I can knock. He’s right there, in a crisp white button-down and jeans that are just this side of formal. For a second, I’m sure he’ll try to make a joke—maybe about my “fancy” salad, or how I look in my slinky blue dress, or that my arms are already cold even though it’s barely October. But he just stands there, takes me in like he’s memorizing the moment.
“Come in,” he says. The words are simple, but the tone is not.
I step inside, and the air changes immediately. There’s music, low and jazzy—one of those playlists that says “effortless” but took three hours to curate. The lights are dim except for candles on the dining table. I catch a whiff of garlic and herbs and something deeper, like caramelizing onions or a secret ingredient he’s not going to tell me about until after I’ve guessed wrong three times.
I set my offerings on the kitchen island. There are so many books in this house I feel like I’ve wandered into a library’s secret after-dark party. Floor-to-ceiling shelves in the living room, coffee table stacked with hardcovers, even a teetering pile on the stairs. The only thing more obvious than his taste for literature is the fact that everything else is so intentionally minimal—gray velvet sofa, heavy wooden dining table, no art on the walls except for one brutalist painting over the fireplace. If there’s a single throw pillow in the entire house, it’s hiding in shame.
He takes my coat, hangs it up, and stands behind me for a second too long. I feel the warmth of his hands even after he’s stepped away. “Wine?” he says.
“Yes please. If that’s not a cliché,” I add, giving him a pointed look.
“Clichés exist for a reason,” he says, and he’s so close to smiling I feel warmth start in the tips of my toes. He pours, hands steady, and I watch the little trickle swirl around the bottom of my glass. We’re both pretending this is normal, that I’m just another adult at a dinner party and not a curvy co-ed who really shouldn’t be here.
He gestures toward the living room, but I stop him.
“Smells amazing,” I say. “What’s for dinner?”
He gives me a half-bow. “Chicken in white wine sauce. I even looked up a gluten-free recipe for the pasta, just in case.”
“You’re spoiling me,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow. “Maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”
We sit. The table is set with actual napkins, not the paper kind. There’s a little dish of olives, a platter of sliced cheese, and he’s even bothered to light votive candles in these heavy glass holders.
For the first minute, we just eat. It is—okay, I don’t want to admit this, but it’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever tasted. The sauce is rich and buttery, the chicken cut in perfect, blushing-pink slices. I wonder if he practiced this meal a few times before tonight. I want to tease him about it, but the look on his face is not one of a man who wants to be roasted for his chicken.
He waits until I’m halfway through a bite before asking, “How’s school?”
I nearly choke. “It’s good. I mean, you’d know better than anyone.” I regret it as soon as I say it. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make it weird.”
He shakes his head, slow. “You didn’t.”
There’s a pause, but not the uncomfortable kind. I notice how the candlelight plays with the bones of his face, how his sleeves are rolled up just enough to show his muscled forearms. His hands are beautiful and strong, fingers tapered like he could palm a basketball but also write a sonnet.
I decide to go for it. “So, Liam,” I say, and he looks up, startled at the sound of his own name. “You said you haven’t been with anyone since the divorce. When was that?”
He swallows, then shrugs. “Five years ago, six almost. I haven’t been in a real relationship since, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I cock my head at him.
“No relationships? Really?”
