I quickly look away. Holden knows about my lack of dating life—he’s commented on it more than once—but he clearly hadn’t figured out that I’mavoidingit.
I pick at the hem of my dress, wishing I had chosen something else.
“Why are you avoiding it?” Hattie asks, twisting her hair into a messy bun.
I shift in my seat, regretting ever saying anything at all. “I just… don’t enjoy it. That’s all.”For reasons neither of you would understand.“Besides, I don’t have time. You know how weird my schedule is.”
“So? Mine is weird too,” Holden says, still scrutinizing me.
“Well, good for you. It’s exactly why you should keep going. I hope it goes well.” I swap legs, crossing one over the other. Hopefully, my tone can bring an end to this dreadful conversation. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not today, not ever.
It’s exhausting.
The issue isn’t the people I’ve gone on dates with. It’s… me, no matter how much I try to deny it. The more comfortable I’ve gotten in my own skin—the way I dress, the way I exist, the way I am—the moreuncomfortableother people seem to be around me.
It starts with a hesitation before touching me, or a glance that lingers too long on my outfit, like they’re trying to figure me out. And then comes the way they pull back. Subtly, of course, so as not to be rude. And let’s not talk about the fucking polite smile that doesn’t quite reach their eyes. God, I hate that smile.
But that’s not as bad as the final stage: the exit. The way some evenings turned into this unspoken game of who could get out of the commitment first without being the obvious jerk.
It’s not all the time, of course. Most people are genuinely kind, so we part ways without issue. And I’ve had some exceptional nights that left me breathless for more. But finding someone I don’t have to explain everything to is just… tiring.
It’s easiernotto date. No expectations. No awkward conversations. No confusing will-we-have-chemistry-or-won’t-we, or trying to decide if I should tone something down or dress differently or be… less.
Because I don’twantto be less.
Not for anyone.
And the only one who seems to be okay with that is the one person who would never look at me as more than a friend—not that I see him that way either. The very idea of Holden asking me on a date makes me want to keel over with laughter. It would never happen. We’re too… different. Too us. Too set in our ways.
But still. I wishsomeonewould accept me the way Holden and Hattie do. I’d love to actually have someone care for me the way my parents care for each other.
I tug at the hem of my dress again when I catch Holden still watching me. As close as we are, there are some things Holden can never understand.
Dad pokes his head out from the back door and yells, “It’s time for cake!”
I get up quickly, wincing at the shriek of laughter coming from a nearby table. It jostles that ache inside me.
Hopefully, I can get through cake without incident. Then I’ll go home and crawl into my bed where it’s safe.
4
HOLDEN
The restaurant glows like a jewel box dropped into the middle of downtown San Diego, with warm lights and elegant architecture. The sign by the door is minimalist and sleek, all brushed metal and clean lines. Soft acoustic music flows from a speaker above, soothing my nerves.
My steps slow as I take it in. Pale light spills through wide windows, where paper screens etched with cranes and cherry blossoms create privacy between the tables, and red lanterns seem to float above as if by magic. Tall wire trees arch over the walkway, bejeweled with pink rhinestone blossoms, and a small water fountain bubbles near the front desk.
Everything about the place is beautiful—and not at all what I expected.
I had no idea this place even existed.
I am suddenly hyperaware of how low I set the bar for tonight. Korie’s comment about dooming the date before it started echoes somewhere in my mind, and I can’t help but think maybe they’re right. Maybe I really hadn’t taken this seriously enough.
Smoothing a hand down my shirt, I take a deep breath and go inside. Right away, I’m hit with the rich scents of soy and ginger. My mouth waters.
The hostess greets me with a small bow. After giving her my name, I’m directed to a table to the left, where a man is already sitting in front of a gentle-flowing waterfall. His perfectly sculpted face is illuminated by candlelight as he studies a menu.
I can’t help but gulp. Gage looks almostnothinglike he did a few nights ago, when he had been wearing an apron with a white linen shirt. He looks like he belongs here instead of the other place. His dark hair is neatly styled, and he’s wearing a crisp red button-down tucked into tailored slacks. His leather shoes look like they cost more than my monthly grocery bill.
