“You’re not a stranger,” Sage says.
“We’ve known each other for fifteen minutes.”
“Poppy’s told me everything about you.”
“Is that so?”
Sage didn’t give me a chance to answer.
“Yeah, she’s my best friend, so yes, I know a lot about you.”
“I like you,” he says to Sage. “Even though you’re clearly here to determine if I’m worthy of your friend.”
“And? Am I going to determine that?”
He laughs. An actual laugh—short and surprised, like it escaped without permission.
I stare. I’ve never heard him laugh before.
“I hope so. I’d hate to fail the test.”
They look at each other—some kind of silent assessment passing between them. Then Sage leans back.
“Okay,” she says. “You’re weird. You’re definitely hiding something. You talk like you’re from a different century, and you’re way too composed for any normal human being.”
“Sage—”
“But.” She holds up a hand. “You also clearly care about Poppy. You look at her like she’s the only person in the room. And you showed up to be interrogated by her crazy best friend without complaining.”
“I’d hardly call you crazy.”
“You don’t know me well enough yet.” She raises her wine glass. “Provisional approval. Pending further investigation.”
“I’ll take it.”
The rest of the evening goes better than I expected.
Sage asks about Julian’s work (vague answers about investments and consulting). About his family (even vagueranswers about privacy and loss). About how we met (the gallery story we practiced, delivered smoothly).
Julian asks about her job (wedding planner), her hobbies (murder podcasts and overthinking), her relationship status (complicated, which means situationally on-again-off-again with commitment-phobic guys).
By 10 PM, we’ve finished two bottles of wine, and Sage has progressed from suspicious to reluctantly charmed.
“He’s good,” she tells me in the kitchen while Julian pretends not to hear from the living room. “Too good. That’s my only concern.”
“Too good how?”
“No one’s that polished. That controlled. He’s like a person designed in a lab.”
“He’s just... careful.”
“He’s a little spooky, Pops.” She lowers her voice. “When he looks at me, I feel like he’s reading my soul. Like he knows things about me that I haven’t even figured out yet.”
“That’s just intensity.”
“That’s not just anything. That’s—” She stops. Shakes her head. “I don’t know what that is. But it’s not normal.”
“Normal is overrated.”
