I looked down at her expectant face, at the complete trust and acceptance there, and felt my heart do something complicated in my chest.
“Sweetie, we barely know each other. How about I say ‘yes’ to another dinner and we go from there?”
She smiled, satisfied with this answer, and curled back up against my lap.
“Good,” she said sleepily. “I want someone to help you make pancakes. You always burn them.”
Chapter 10
Jeremiah
The ceiling fan spun lazily above my bed, its blades cutting through the darkness in a hypnotic rhythm that had become my nightly meditation.
Creak.
One full rotation.
Creak.
Another.
The sound was oddly soothing, like a mechanical heartbeat that matched the steady thrum of contentment in my chest.
I’d been lying there for the better part of an hour, hands folded behind my head, replaying every moment of dinner with Theo: the way his hair had looked even more tousled than usual, like he’d spent twenty minutes trying to tame it and then given up in adorable defeat, how he’d adjusted his glasses at least fifteen times during our conversation—a nervous habit that I was quickly becoming obsessed with.
And, sweet potatoes, he was smart.
Not just book-smart, though he was definitely that, but genuinely intelligent in a way that made everything sound fascinating when it came out of his mouth. Even ordering off the menu had been like watching someone conduct a symphony, the way he’d considered each option with careful deliberation before settling on the mushroom risotto “because the chef probably knows more about flavor combinations than I do.”
Creak.
My mind drifted, painting pictures of a future I had no business imagining after one interrupted dinner that could barely be called a date. I saw us at Piedmont Park on a Sunday afternoon, Theo laughing as we tried to keep up with Debbie’s boundless energy, her pigtails flying as she raced from the swings to the slide and back again. Maybe we’d have a picnic, and I’d watch him help her with a sandwich, his patient hands guiding her smaller ones.
Then the image shifted, became something completely ridiculous.
We were floating above the city in a hot-air balloon, of all things, Theo’s hair whipping in the wind as he pointed out landmarks below. It made absolutely no sense because I was terrified of heights and would probably spend the entire ride with my eyes squeezed shut, gripping the basket like my life depended on it.
But in my imagination, I was fearless, standing close behind Theo with my arms around his waist, breathing in the scent of his shampoo as we soared through cotton-ball clouds.
Creak.
Another scene materialized: a perfect summer day, ice cream cones melting in the heat as we walked down some tree-lined street. I’d tap Theo’s nose with the vanilla end of my cone, leaving a tiny dollop of cream on the tip while he looked at me in stunned surprise. Then he’d laugh—that warm, unguardedsound that had crawled into my chest and made itself at home—and probably retaliate by getting chocolate on my chin.
The fantasies were so vivid, so real. For a moment, I could almost taste the sweetness on my tongue.
Creak.
Then reality crashed down like a bucket of ice water with one simple question:
What if the phone call had beenan excuse?
The thought struck so suddenly that I actually sat up in bed, my stomach dropping to somewhere around my ankles, which was hard because I was in bed and my ankles weren’t really below my stomach, but roll with me here, okay?
I’d set up the “rescue call” scenario before, back when Mateo had convinced me to go on a blind date with his cousin’s friend. We’d arranged for Sisi to call an hour into dinner with some manufactured emergency if I needed an out. If I ignored the call, things were going well, and they could resume their normal programming. If I answered, we’d use a predetermined emergency to get me out of the date posthaste.
What if Theo had done the same thing?
What if Julia had been instructed to call with a convenient excuse?
