By the time I slide behind the wheel, my heart’s pounding like I just did wind sprints.
It’s just a date, I tell myself.
Yeah, but she’s not just anyone.
I start the engine. The dashboard lights glow softly, and the radio kicks on low, some acoustic playlist Milton left queued. I pull out of the driveway and onto the street, glancing over at her.
She’s watching me, chin propped in her hand, hair spilling over her shoulder. When she catches me looking, she lifts her phone again.
Bayleigh: Where are we going?
“Riverside Grill,” I say. “No hockey, just you and me.”
Her mouth curves. She types.
Bayleigh: No fans ready to start a brawl? I’m shocked.
“I’m trying this new thing where I don’t get my date caught in a crossfire.”
Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. I catch it out of the corner of my eye, and something tight in my chest loosens.
At the next red light, I tap her arm to get her attention, then lift my hand between us.
My fingers shape her name. B-A-Y-L-E-I-G-H.
I mess up the Y at first, my thumb too stiff. I fix it. Do it again.
She watches my hands like they’re doing magic, eyes bright. When I finish, she signs something back, slower for me—my name, she mouths, and repeats the letters with her own fingers, perfectly.
I try mine again. Better. Not good. But better.
Her smile says it’s enough.
The light turns green. I drop my hand, and we cruise the rest of the way in a comfortable kind of quiet—her scent curling around me, my brain running through everything I don’t want to screw up.
Riverside Grill’s half-full when we walk in. Warm lighting. Exposed brick. A low murmur of conversation instead of the roar of a game. No jerseys in sight.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The hostess greets us with a too-bright smile. “Table for two?”
“Yeah,” I say, angling my body so Bayleigh can see my mouth. “Somewhere quiet if you’ve got it?”
She follows my glance to Bayleigh, clocking the way she watches my lips, and her expression softens. “Of course. Right this way.”
She leads us toward the back, to a booth near the windows. The light from outside is fading, but the overhead fixture casts enough glow that Bayleigh’s face is clear, her eyes easy to see.
Good. She’ll be able to catch everything.
I let her slide into the booth first, then sit across from her. Menus land on the table. The hostess gives us a quick, polite smile and leaves.
For a beat, we just look at each other.
“Hi,” I say, feeling stupid but saying it, anyway.
Her lips curve. She signshiback and mouths, “Nervous?”
I huff out a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
