We ordered a bottle of something Italian that the waiter recommended, and then we were alone again with menus, candlelight, and the reality that we were doing this. Actually dating.
“I want to know you better.” Ellis leaned forward.
“Like what?”
“Anything. The kind of thing you’d never put on a dating profile.”
I thought about deflecting with a joke. About keeping it light and surface-level, the way I usually did. But the way he looked at me made me want to try.
“I almost didn’t show up tonight.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Really. I spent all day convincing myself this was a bad idea. That I was going to screw it up, that you’d realize I’m not actually worth the effort, that it would be easier to just cancel and go back to…” I gestured vaguely. “The way things were before.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My friends. They reminded me that sometimes the scary thing is the thing worth doing.” I met his eyes. “And I really wanted to see you again.”
The waiter returned with our wine, going through the whole ceremony of showing Ellis the label, pouring a taste, waiting for approval. Ellis nodded, and the waiter filled both our glasses before disappearing again.
Ellis raised his glass. “To scary things being worth doing.”
I clinked mine against his. “And to friends who stage interventions.”
The wine was good, rich and smooth with a bite that lingered. We ordered food. He got the carbonara. I ordered the bolognese, and then we talked.
Talked as if it mattered.
He told me about growing up on Long Island, about being the only child of parents who’d had him later in life. About feeling like he never quite fit in anywhere, always a little too serious, a little too quiet. About studying computer science because he was good with patterns and logic, even though his parents had hoped he’d go into law or medicine.
I told him about Ma, about growing up with her fierce love and her determination to give me a better life than she’d had. AboutThe Chaos Coven, about how they’d saved me in high school when I’d been drowning.About discovering event planning almost by accident and realizing I was actually good at something that mattered.
Our food arrived, and we kept talking between bites. He asked about the worst wedding disaster I’d ever handled. I asked about the weirdest tech problem he’d ever had to solve. We talked about movies, music, and the strange intimacy of Brooklyn neighborhoods. About what it felt like to build a life in a city that never stopped moving.
“This is really good.” Ellis gestured at his pasta. “Want to try some?”
“Only if you try mine.”
We swapped forks, tasting each other’s dishes, and the small intimacy of it sat bigger than it should’ve. Sharing food. Trusting each other not to take too much.
“Yours is better,” I admitted.
“Want to trade?”
“Absolutely not. I’m committed to my choice now.”
He laughed, really laughed, head tilting back, and I wanted to bottle that sound.
Dessert appeared; tiramisu, the waiter insisted was “the best in Brooklyn,” and we demolished it between us while the restaurant slowly emptied around us.
Eventually, the waiter brought the check, setting it equidistant between us.
We both reached for it at the same time, hands colliding over the leather folder.
“I’ve got this.” Ellis tightened his grip on the faux leather case.
“You got coffee. It’s my turn.”
