What if Debbie hadn’t been sick at all, and Theo had just been looking for a polite way to escape an evening he wasn’t enjoying?
With me.
My chest tightened as I replayed our conversation, searching for signs I might have missed. Had he seemed uncomfortable? Bored? Had I talked too much about work, or not enough about books, or said something stupid that made him realize we had nothing in common? I wasn’t nearly as smart as him, not by a country mile. Had my thick head sent him running for some guy who actually knew the difference between algebra and geometricness? Gastronomy? Geometry! That’s it.
Creak.
Sigh.
Maybe I’d read the signals all wrong. Maybe his nervous fidgeting hadn’t been attraction but anxiety about how to let me down gently. Maybe those smiles I’d been cataloging in my memory were just politeness masking disappointment.
Creak.
The fan continued its endless rotation, but the sound had lost its comforting quality. Now it felt mocking, like a timer counting down the seconds until I’d have to face the truth that this thing I’d been building up in my head was a stupid, unrealistic one-sided fantasy.
But then my brain, apparently tired of the spiral into self-doubt, decided to stage an intervention.
He kissed you back on the porch—onhisporch, idiot, it pointed out reasonably, if a bit harshly. My inner voice could be a real bitch sometimes.People don’t usually kiss back if they’re not interested.
He said yes to dinner in the first place. Multiple times.
He looked genuinely disappointed when he had to leave early, not relieved.
And did you see the way he smiled when you said you understood about Debbie needing him? That wasn’t the smile of someone looking for an escape.
Holy cow. My inner voice was being supportive. Something was seriously wrong . . . or right. I couldn’t quite tell.
The anxious knot in my stomach began to loosen.
Maybe I was overthinking this.
I did that.
A lot.
Maybe a sick kid was just a sick kid, and a concerned parent was just a concerned parent, and not everything had to be some elaborate deception.
Maybe Theo had actually enjoyed our dinner as much as I had and really was looking forward to a second crack at the apple. Bite of the bat? Stab at the pie?
Shit, a second date.
Creak.
Without any conscious decision from my brain, my hand reached toward the nightstand and grabbed my phone. My fingers moved across the screen as though controlled by some mystical puppeteer with the most precise strings ever made, typing out a message before my rational mind could intervene.
Me:How’s our little chef? Can’t wait until next time.
I stared at the words for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the send button. It was casual but caring, showed I was thinking about Debbie without being pushy about another date. It was perfect.
Or it was completely inappropriate to text someone at eleven-thirty at night after an interrupted first date while their daughter was ill and probably needing emergency care or an ambulance or life flight or . . .
Creak.
The fan spun on, indifferent to my internal debate.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed send.
The message disappeared into the digital ether, carrying with it all my hope and anxiety . . . and the desperate wish that I hadn’t just made a complete fool of myself.
