"This would be easier if I had a damn clue where we were going," I grumbled to myself.
Since I'd turned our first date into a chapter fromThe Hobbit, I suggested Jory plan the next outing. That way, he was guaranteed to enjoy himself, and I'd learn what he liked. Because I obviously had no clue and when I'd tried to feel him out before our first date, he'd insisted he was up for anything. He'd repeated that sentiment the whole night too.
I wasn't the sharpest tack in the box, and sometimes I failed to read between the lines, but I'd checked in a bunch of times that night and he'd given me every indication of having a wicked good time. I'd realized at the taco stand that some of his smiles were more like grimaces and it seemed to me he'd only let those slip by because I'd put him through a marathon of fun and he was too tired to censor himself.
No more of that. Nope. It should've dawned on me while I'd asked him out a half dozen times only for him to respond with wide, overwhelmed eyes, fidgety hands, and a gentle change of topic. Jory liked slow. He needed it that way—and I had to adjust accordingly. It didn't matter whether my whole body clenched when he smiled or I got a massive endorphin rush from seeing his name in my text message inbox. Jory favored a slower, steadier approach and it was on me to adapt.
Tonight, I'd make sure he was tucked into bed right on time. I wasn't opposed to doing the tucking—I'd tuck the fuck out of him—but there was no need to rush.
In fact, rushing wasn't even a concern at all as I couldn't find a single thing to wear. I tossed another sweater on the bed and headed toward the staircase leading up to the main level of my sister's house.
"Mallori," I called. "Can you help me?"
I lived with my sister—and her husband and kids.
"With what?" she shouted back.
The basement wasn't so much an apartment but a dark, slightly damp dungeon with a small bathroom that leaned hard enough into rustic chic that my niece and nephew were terrified of stepping a single toe in there. But it was free and free was a bangin' deal.
I leaned back against the wall. "I don't know what to wear."
She made a sound, one that conveyed frustration, impatience, and grudging affection all at once and carried through walls and ceilings with ease. It was the knuckleball of mom sighs because it was never clear which of those emotions would connect the hardest.
"Jeans and a nice sweater," she replied.
I shot a baleful glance at the pile on my sofa bed. "I don't have any nice sweaters," I yelled.
We were yellers. We might not have been born this way but we grew up that way and hadn't managed to outgrow it yet.
"Oh my god," she muttered as she jogged down the stairs from the kitchen. "I gave you a nice sweater last Christmas, and the kids gave you one for your birthday a couple of years ago. What's wrong with those options?" She gave my boxer briefs thewhy are you practically nakedmom sigh before turning her attention to the bed. "What's this all about?"
"I have a date," I said.
"Really? You kids still use the worddate? That's neat."
My sister was barely two years older than me yet treated that gap like two decades. She was always the adult in our relationship. Always the smart one, the mature one, the sensible one, the settled one—and she knew it.
I was…none of those things. I lived here because I'd had nowhere else to go when things with Teddy fell all the way apart last winter. Walking into our apartment and finding him with another manon my birthdaywas the last and final straw. There'd been other last straws, too many to count, and I was ashamed of each one of them because I'd put up with Teddy being terrible to me for much longer than I could cover up with excuses.
I glared at her as she picked through my pile. "I don't know about the otherkidsbut yeah, I'm calling it a date, Mallori."
"It's clear you're not going down to Dedham House of Pizza with this amount of drama." She snorted and plucked the navy sweater from the heap. "This is cute. Wear this and don't stress."
I folded my arms over my chest. "I'm not interested in cute."
"Be cute and be happy about it," she said, tossing me the sweater. "This shows off your tan."
To Mallori, there was nothing better than a good, lasting tan. She was known to drag a lawn chair out in March, all bundled up in a winter coat, just to catch some rays on her face.
"It's not—" I held up the sweater, wishing she could understand my distress. "It's justnot."
I didn't know where Jory would want us to go, but I knew this sweater wasn't right. He was always talking about the books and journals he read, the podcasts he listened to, the documentaries he watched. He'd want to go somewhere intellectual like that—maybe a museum or a symposium. I didn't know what a symposium actually involved but it seemed like something he'd enjoy.
Or a symphony. Did I have anything appropriate for a symphony?
No. Definitely not.
"Okay. I know that look. You're freaking out. We need to pull it back in, Coach." She dropped her hands on my biceps, gave me a firm squeeze. "Step one: where are you going on this date?"
