She plops onto my bed and watches in the mirror as I slap on some concealer and eyeshadow, which she asks me to let her use, too, so I turn to pop a light champagne shade onto her lids and let her look into the mirror before turning back to put on some mascara and lip gloss.
“Pretty,” Macie tells me in the mirror with a firm nod. “Are you going to a sleepover?”
“Definitely not,” I laugh. “I’m just gonna have some dinner with my friend.”
“Gonna get mac and cheese?” Macie thinks everyone should always be eating mac and cheese. The spiral kind, specifically, if it’s available.
I tap my finger on my chin, pasting a thoughtful look on my face. “I like the way you think, kid.”
Once my rollers are cooled, she helps me take them down and fluff out the resulting curls so I can get a little extra volume to my hair, then we head downstairs so she can be picked up by her friend’s mom, who I thank for driving her and having her over before giving Macie a big squeeze and a smooch on the cheek.
I watch as she climbs into the booster seat and heads off for her first sleepover ever. Something our dad should have been here for, been in charge of. He should have been here to send her off and buy her a new outfit. A twinge of pain stings my heart, hoping she looks back on this as a funtime spent with her big sister, and not a big moment that her dad wasn’t there for.
That our mom wasn’t here for.
Running inside to grab my purse and lock up, I stuff down my rising grief and move out to the porch to wait for Emmett. I find myself suddenly nervous about him seeing where I live – not that I expect him to judge. I wouldn’t be going out with him if that were the case. It’s just that he’s the son of a gajillionaire business mogul, and I doubt he comes to neighborhoods like mine often.
I really don’t want him to see the mess in the house or smell the permanent aura of scotch that hangs in the air. Him seeing the way the exterior has broken down in just a few short years is more than embarrassing enough.
Emmett’s glossy white Mercedes coupe sticks out like a sore thumb when it pulls up in front of my house, and I wonder for a second if he feels as out of place here as he looks, but I stuff the thought down and wave at him with a grin as I approach the car. He opens the door for me from the inside with a smile and I settle into the warm seat, relieved to be out of the cold.
“Hey,” he says, “you look great.”
I smile and take in his outfit: a white t-shirt that sits beneath a sleek navy blue blazer and matching slacks. His medium-length, dirty blond hair is pushed back – it looks like the cut was freshly touched up today. For me.
“Thank you,” I tell him, “so do you.”
As the car pulls away from my house, I find myself feeling really nervous. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a first date, I feel like I’ve suddenly forgotten everything about myself and how to be a person existing in public with another person. Like there’s some universal script I’m going to forget to follow.
He seems like a nice guy; we’ve become friends since we started working together, and I’d hate to screw that up. It’s one thing to be friends, but when it comes toromantic partners, I’ve come to learn that when people find out that you live with a chronic illness, they decide one of three things:
1. You’re faking it, because you just want some attention.
2. You’re dying and/or contagious, and they don’t want whatever it is that you’re passing around.
3. You’re going to need them to take care of you and it will become a burden they aren’t ready for or willing to deal with.
Getting that out of the way early on saves everyone involved a lot of time and a lot of heartache – even if it still stings in the end. So far, I’m two for option two, and I’m really not aiming to make that three. The last guy I went out with literally took a step back from me when he found out.
For a while, I swore myself off of dating after that, because it was humiliating, and really hurtful. I may not always feel like I’m deserving of that kind of love, but no one deserves that kind of reaction over something they can’t control.
As we pull up to the valet and step out, I see the line streaming out of the restaurant’s door, down to the end of the block. This place must be either really popular or brand new, to draw a crowd like this.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“Don’t worry,” Emmett chuckles, “we have a reservation.”
I feel a little guilty walking past all of these people, cutting the line ahead of them when they’ve been here for god knows how long, just waiting to get in and get some food in their bellies, but I follow Emmett up to the maitre d’ anyway, where he casually places his arm on the podium in front of him and speaks with a voice like butter.
“Reservation for two under Fowler,” he says.
“Of course, right this way, Mr. Fowler.”
Following him, I look around the restaurant and realize how incredibly far out of my tax bracket this place is. Everyone is dressed to the nines, tables are lined with foods I can’t even pretend to recognize, and conversation is calm and subdued compared to the din of the restaurants I usually go to, on the very rare occasion I eat out.
When we get to our table, the maitre d’ pulls my chair out for me and brings over a small bench before taking my purse and setting it down gently onto it. I try to train my face into a neutral expression to hide the amazement flooding through me as I take my seat, thanking the maitre d’.
The server approaches our table, and I’m shocked that my order is taken first. I may not have much experience, but even at dinners with my dad, the men at the table were always asked for their orders first. I ask for a sparkling water – I’m really going wild tonight – and Emmett orders a really old-sounding wine for himself, which is brought over by a sommelier, who first pours a splash of the wine into the glass, then dumps it out before properly filling it and depositing it onto the table in front of Emmett.
