Page 70 of The Perfect Rom-Com

But he’s put on his watch. His father’s lucky watch.

The one he reserves for only the moments that really count in his mind.

It’s a funny thing, going on a date with a longtime friend. You can’t mask your true feelings, I guess. You know each other so well that you give yourself away even without meaning to.

Were I a girl off the street, I never would’ve thought he was anxious about our dinner. In fact, I would’ve mistaken that easy, open expression on his face and the way he’s resting his hand on the back seat of the leather captain’s chair as almost too easy. Too nonchalant about how we plan to spend our evening. Almost as though, well, if we end up at a burger joint with a bunch of other acquaintances and then split ways, fine! Who cares? Certainly not me. We can chalk it up to a nice time between friends.

But I’m not a girl off the street, as it happens.

He hasn’t ever had to say the meaning behind his lucky watch; I just know. He wore it on the day I went with him to the German book conference, and he was particularly anxious about securing a conversation with a specific foreign rights company. He wore it when I ended up at his fifteen-year high school reunion (heaven knows how) and he was anxious to show the world he grew into an entirely different man than the (quite, I learned) immature youth he used to be. And he puts it on practically every time he’s called up for a special meeting with his CEO father.

His watch represents moments in time he wishes to mark as his best.

And apparently tonight, with me, is one he wants to mark as his best.

Penny’s eyes slide from Jack to me and she slowly moves backward, back toward her chair. “Oh, shoot, I just remembered I’m supposed to be finishing up Amelia’s newsletter.”

One of her six that come out every week, I’ve learned, and always begin with: Hi, My Beautiful, Creative, Talented Babes.

“Let’s shoot for a group escape tomorrow night,” I say. And I mean it.

We have to get this girl off the insanity train sooner rather than later.

The sky is cotton candy with puffs of pink, sunset-bright clouds set against a blue canvas sky as we step off the bus and march our way through the parking lot. It’s another strip mall we’ve landed beside here at Rosemary Beach, and a high-end one at that. A Tesla dealership bookends one end of the strip, a commercial bookstore the other, with an REI and a Williams Sonoma featured prominently with their large block lettering, wide-open doors, and shoppers peeling in and out with large shopping bags. Smaller mom-and-pop shops dot the rest of the landscape, small but mighty with their bright blue facades and swirly green palm tree signs.

“Okay.” Jack stops and waves a hand panoramically at the long row of stores. “Take your pick.”

I scan the names on the shops, my eyes sliding over everything from La Carreta to Rai Lay Thai and in between. They land on a little white restaurant just off to one side. A black-and-white-striped awning hangs over the front window, with black Parisian umbrellas cluttering up the small sidewalk to the curb. Light flickers from heavy lanterns on both sides of the wooden doors, and a man dressed in a white button-up and black slacks puts out his cigarette and rushes in with an accordion, of all things.

“That one,” I say, pointing, but he’s already walking in that direction.

“I know.” He turns and pauses for me to catch up. “As soon as I saw the man with the most annoying musical instrument possible, I knew.”

I feel pretty good about my choice, however, as we get settled in our seats and look around. The small black-and-white bistro chairs are comfortable and quaint in our little patio setting. Live music streams out from the open doors, but with the band at the back end of the restaurant, it sounds lively. Pairs nicely with the sight of flickering flames from electric lanterns and white votives all around. Our bus is in view at the end of the parking lot—Amelia’s big, bright smile leering at us from a hundred feet away. I scooch my chair around to face Jack without Big Brother watching.

My stomach is seizing up with jitters again, with so many unknowns swirling around this moment, and my brain goes into overdrive as it questions every single little thing.

What was that look he gave me as we sat down?

What did he mean, “No, we’ll take somewhere quieter, if you have it”?

Why exactly did he order a basket of bread for the table?

Is this just a basket-of-bread-for-the-table type of meal between friends? I mean, bread is not stereotypically romantic.

Oh. And there he goes. Ordering champagne. For what?

WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN?

Not to mention the equally overwhelming thoughts regarding the way I’m doing things.

Sit up straight, Bryony! Why is it so impossible to sit up straight in these chairs? This is all your fault. You should’ve made use of that posture bra Gloria bought you for Christmas last year. You went on and on about how you wanted it, and she went on and on about how it would give you the grace of Audrey Hepburn, and yet did you use it? Noooo, you found it all too “inconvenient” and now look at you. You’ve spent all your time hunched over your laptop and now you’re a hunchback over your plate. This, THIS is what happens when you haven’t gone on a proper date in two years—

“What are you doing?”

Jack stops me in my self-loathing anti–pep talk. “What?” I look up from the bread roll I’ve been shredding into little bits.

“You’re sitting like a telephone poll. Stop it. It’s weird.”