“Youarebeautiful,” I tell her, smoothing my hand over her hair and kissing the top of her head. “And smart, and curious, and creative, and very hard working.”
She grins. “Do you have a date?”
I hesitate, glancing at Gia before I answer. Is Lizzie even aware what a date is, or has she just heard the term around school? At her age, it could go either way, and as far as I know, Gia doesn’t date.
Unless that’s why Lizzie asked in the first place. Maybe Gia goes on dates all the time.
I look at mybig sister.
She shrugs in thatkids be crazyway she does sometimes, even though Lizzie is the farthest thing from crazy.
“Yes,” I finally answer, “I have a date. With Dev.”
Even though the memory of him mentioning Angelica’s when we were out together is fuzzy, I’ve reread Dev’s text so many times I have it memorized. He used the word explicitly.Date.
I keep waffling between surprise that my oldest friend so brazenly asked me out, and confidence that this is a great idea.
My top priority is to avoid a repeat of the Christopher situation, which would never happen with Dev. We don’t work together, and I trust him.
“Are you going to get dessert?” Lizzie asks hopefully.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe tiramisu.” It was always my favorite of theirs.
Gia stands up and lays her book down on the sofa arm. The colorful illustrated cover catches me by surprise.
So no-nonsense Gia likes romance books.
“Angelica’s,” she says, walking over. “Great first-date spot.”
“Not a lot to choose from.” I take my keys from the hook by the door.
Though, to be fair, it is the right choice. The Square is no good for a first date, and Celine’s is too fancy.
Angelica’s is the perfect in-between. It’s the kind of place that has vinyl red checkered tablecloths, but also candles and fresh flowers on every table. They make their pasta in-house, but their menus are laminated.
Ignoring my small-town jab, my big sister looks me up and down. Her expression says,I know what shirt that is.
“I bet Dev lovesdessert,” she says.
A bubble of laughter climbs out of my throat. “I’ll find out,” I say as I open the door. “Don’t wait up.”
“I won’t,” she says as she walks to the stove.
“Where did all these people come from?” I mutter to myself.
Since Dev lives walking distance to the restaurant, I volunteered to meet him there. But now, I can’t find any parking around downtown.
Then again, if I lived here for good, I’d do anything I could to get out of the house on a Saturday night, too.
At last, I find a spot all the way in front of Madam’s Hardware, its florescent internal lights flooding the sidewalk.
It was Adam’s Hardware when I was little, but Adam lost it in the divorce. Ms. Agnes kept it out of spite and tacked on anMto the front. The whole town supported her when it came out Adam cheated with a girl from the community college, and she’s been doing great business ever since. Even the old loafers who walk down everyday just to sit in front of the wood stove sipping their coke with peanuts never missed a beat.
I park my car behind a red truck. It reminds me of a bigger, fancier red truck I got a ride home in once. Thank fuck it’s not the same. The last person I want to run into is its owner.
When I step out, two of the regular loafers, Gus and Walter, shuffle out of Madam’s Hardware, ready to go home to their respective wives.
“You’re back,” Gus grumbles at me.
