I woke up in my bed the morning after Cooper took care of me. Dazed and groggy. I don’t remember ever going to my room. I’ve rewound the night, but all my memory recalls is laughing at him quoting whatever movie incorrectly. We watched two, maybe three, I don’t know, I lost track.
Cooper must’ve carried me to bed before leaving. In the kitchen, there was a note attached to a box of electrolyte packets telling me to drink these and take it easy. Underneath the teal box was a filled-out packet of what we were supposed to do during our session. His writing is chicken scratch, but I scanned through it to the last page, finding a smiley face and a boat.
I laughed freely, scratching at the lingering headache I had, and something warm wrestled deep inside me. Old feelings reawakening from the hibernation I forced them into. They stretch, clawing at the bars of their entrapment. God help me, they better not want out, or escape on their ambition.
He called me later that day, but I was on the phone with my parents. Cooper didn’t leave a voicemail, didn’t text either. I sent him one, though. A simple thank you.
I ate the soup again for dinner. Elliot couldn’t help from indulging in a bowl, reminding me of us as kids when we used to mastermind being sick to get Mrs. Carmichael to make this soup.
By the next morning, I had bounced back.
I almost cancelled tonight, slightly apprehensive about eating food that was not cooked in my apartment. One minor complaint to Elliot, she stole my phone and called me out on my bullshit. Lovingly reiterating how long I’ve been waiting and wanting this before dragging me into the bathroom to help me with my hair.
“On other dates?” I hate the question immediately.
A buzz of worry that I’ve already ruined tonight climbs up my spine, each vertebrae a rung. That buzz plummets, crashing out.
If I slip under the table, will he notice? Or when the waiter comes by, I can ditch? There’s got be a back exit, probably through the kitchen.
My teeth grind together behind my tight-lipped smile. Isn’t that rule number one on a date? Don’t bring up exes or past dates?
“If my mom counts, then yeah,” Zach plays it off.
“Does your family live in Bensen?”
He shakes his head, hands fiddling with the laminated menu. “I wish. My family is in Tampa. Mom travels abroad for work most of the year. When she’s in the States, though, she always spends a weekend here.”
“What does she do?”
“Designs wedding dresses.”
“Your mom is the real-life Elizabeth James.” I gape. I force myself to take a drink of water so I don’t pathetically end up salivating like a dog waiting for a treat. “Did you travel with her as a kid?”
“She is blonde.” I don’t miss or ignore the fact that he understood my reference. “No. She was a stay-at-home mom after she had my brother. We rarely bought clothes because she would make everything from scratch. Not that you’d ever know the difference. When I was in high school, Dad submitted her designs to a company. He went part-time with his job. Said it was time for her to chase her dreams.”
I don’t even know his dad except this one measly, outrageously romantic fact, and I admire him, want to send my compliments to the son he’s raised.
“Does he regret that now?”
“Not one bit.” Zach pushes up the sleeves of his sweater, and my gaze catches on a forearm when he refills my water.
“Your dad reminds me of mine,” I admit.
After retiring from the league, my dad works in my mom’s flower shop. He’s shit at putting together a bouquet, absolutely no eye for what pairs well together. It always ends up with my mom redoing the order, but those seemingly ugly bouquets decorate our house.
He’d do anything for my mom.
Their love is tangible. I swear I can reach out and feel it. Put it on like a coat or dump it into a bath and bathe in it. They grew up with each other. Their hearts grew around each other.
Is that why mine feels like something is missing…
“Except mine is the opposite of athletic.” He relaxes, comfortable and casually, into his seat. It helps ease the remaining tension within me.
Leaning an elbow on the table, I rest my chin in my hand. “Impossible. You’re the starting pitcher for the Lakeland Bears,” I say, doing by best impression of an announcer at a sporting event. It makes his boyish smile grow.
“Truly, though. My parents do not have an athletic bone in their bodies. Amazingly, I’m a D1 baseball player, and my brother is a D1 swimmer. They both tried to practice with us growing up, but quickly learned that coaches are there for a reason. No one knows where we got it from.” He flips over the menu, not reading a single wine or cocktail listed. “Are you close with your parents?”
“Mhm,” I hum. “And my sister.”
