She wrapped them in brown paper while I tried to convince myself this made sense. You could bring someone flowers and then immediately destroy their entire perception of you. People probably did that all the time.
I paid and walked out into the afternoon sun, bouquet in hand, feeling like an idiot.
My apartment was twenty minutes away. I had three hours before I needed to pick up Gianna. Plenty of time to shower, change, maybe have a drink to calm my nerves.
Maybe have several drinks.
I’d been thinking about this date all week. Every morning I’d wake up thinking today’s the day I’ll call her and cancel, tell her we need to talk first, explain everything over the phone where I don’t have to watch her face change.
But I never called.
Instead I’d gone through the motions of normal life while my mind stayed stuck on Saturday at six p.m.
Thursday Jake had called to ask if I wanted to grab drinks. I’d said I was busy. He’d said I was always busy lately and asked if something was wrong.
I’d told him everything was fine.
Friday I’d caught myself looking at Gianna’s LinkedIn profile like a stalker, reading about her clinic work and her academic achievements and trying to reconcile the woman I was falling for with the daughter of a man my decisions had destroyed.
And now it was Saturday and I was outside her apartment holding flowers and trying to figure out how to be the person she thought I was for one more night.
Gianna’s address had led me to a building in Washington Heights. Modest but well-maintained, the kind of place that housed grad students and young professionals who were making it work on tight budgets.
I rang the bell.
Thirty seconds that felt like an hour. Then the door opened.
And I forgot every carefully planned word I’d meant to say.
She was wearing a dress—floral print—and my brain stopped working properly. Her hair was up, showing her neck and shoulders. Simple makeup that made her eyes look bigger, warmer.
She was beautiful, in a way that felt real and present.
“Hi,” she said, and her smile did things to my pulse that should probably be illegal.
“Hi.” I held out the flowers like an offering. “These are for you. I know it’s old-fashioned but I saw them and thought—” I stopped because I was rambling. “Is this too much? It might be too much.”
She took them from me and brought them to her face, breathing in. When she looked up, her expression had gone soft in a way that made my chest feel tight.
“They’re perfect,” she said. “Come in. Let me put these in water.”
I followed her inside and tried not to stare. Her apartment was small—studio layout, everything arranged to make the most of limited space. But it felt like her. Books stacked neatly on shelves, a framed photo of her and an older couple who must be her parents on the bookshelf. My stomach tightened with unease at the sight.
I walked closer to the photo while Gianna filled a vase in the kitchen.
A family portrait. Gianna couldn’t have been more than twelve. Standing between her parents, all three of them dressed up for something, her father’s hand on her shoulder.
Carlos Pearson.
The man I’d never met.
I should tell her. Right now. Standing in her apartment with her father’s photo two feet away. Just say it. Explain everything.
But she turned and looked at me and the words died in my throat.
“Ready?” she asked.
I nodded. “Ready.”
