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The last word floats off my lips so effortlessly.
We’re going on a date. I’m on a date with Dylan Colt.
“Or a black sweater.” He pinches the front of his V-neck sweater. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” I confess, rubbing my stomach. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
I wait for the expected comment about him not eating pussy all day. It was one of his tried and true lines when he was eighteen.
My reaction would always be the same. I’d grimace and shoo him away with a swat of my hand on his shoulder. Secretly, I longed to feel his mouth on me. I envied every girl who had been with him.
“I made a reservation.” He gestures down the sidewalk. “It’s just a block over.”
I don’t bother asking what we’ll be eating, because I don’t care.
The details don’t matter.
What matters is the way he’s looking down at me. It’s the same way he looked at me when I was seventeen, and he was the boy I wanted more than anything in the world.
***
“Pancakes for dinner might be the best thing ever.” I laugh as we exit what can only be described as an elegant breakfast retreat.
It’s a tiny place just off Park Avenue that serves decadent breakfast staples to a discerning dinner crowd.
There’s no jacket or tie requirement and you won’t find an imported bottle of beer there.
We sipped on mimosas and ate the most delicious pancakes slathered in berries and a bourbon maple syrup glaze.
Candied bacon was the side.
I’m stuffed and happier than I’ve been in a long time.
“It’s one of my favorit
e places in the city.” Dylan turns to face me. “I’ve never brought anyone here before.”
Something sparks inside of me.
Joy or relief, maybe it’s the satisfaction of knowing that he chose to share a special place with me.
“They need to open a location in Buffalo.” I laugh. “I’d never have to cook for myself again.”
His brow furrows. “Do you live alone?”
I nod. “It’s just me. No cats or dogs. No birds. Absolutely no roommates.”
He chuckles. “Your dad used to say that he expected you to take care of him when he retired. I always pictured him living under the same roof as you once he gave up coaching. Did he settle in Buffalo too?”
It’s been years, but some grief can’t be measured in time. It burrows into a spot inside of you and never leaves. That’s how it was for me. How it still is.
“My dad died,” I manage to say in a soft voice. “He’s gone.”
Dylan’s hand darts to his mouth. His eyes widen in shocked disbelief. “What? When?”
“Three years ago.” I look up at the lights of the city trying to find my center.
I still cry but only on days that remind me of him. His birthday, my birthday, the day my mom died when I was ten-years-old.
