Chapter 1
What’s worse than checking your date’s phone while he’s in the men’s room after you just met for the first time? Getting caught and him blasting me in front of the whole restaurant.
It all started with Kyle across from me. He’s the guy I matched with on Bumble who is definitely livelier in emojis than in real life and who adjusts his silverware for the third time since our plates were brought up. He has a clean-shave, and chestnut hair that is slicked back like he watched Grease too many times. His blazer is at least one size too snug, as if he’s trying to make his biceps do most of the talking, and the cologne he’s wearing? Subtle is not in his vocabulary. He must’ve sprayed half the bottle on himself before leaving his apartment.
I feel my nose congesting with each inhale. If this persists, I’ll need a sinus flush tomorrow.
I thought spring was supposed to be a time of new beginnings, renewals, and rebirth. So why does it feel like my date isanything but? The daffodils popping up along Main Street promised me hope. Even my first graders’ awkward crayon drawings of butterflies seemed like omens of transformation.
Apparently, the universe has something else in store for me.
His profile had all the green flags I look for: family-oriented, ready to settle down, no bathroom selfies or photos of him hoisting up sea creatures like conquest trophies. Honestly, I thought he might be the unicorn of dating apps—that mythical creature who exists in legend but rarely in the wild dating pool of Maplewood Springs. But in person? There’s a jittery energy coming off him, and every time his phone buzzes—like it’s doing now—his eyes dart to it like a moth to a flame.
He says it’s work-related, but a corner of his mouth tugs upward whenever he reads a message. It sure doesn’t look like a business smile to me. More like the kind of smile Andy used to showcase when texting Lindsey behind my back, although I didn’t know it at the time.
My appetite wanes at the thought.
Stop it, Maisie.
I have no reason to doubt him. Maybe he’s just as nervous as I am. I mean, it has been forever since I’ve been on a date, and after the betrayal—
Not going there. I give myself a little mental shake, straighten my spine, and stab a meatball like it offended me beyond amend. Marinara sauce splatters onto the white tablecloth like a kindergartener’s first finger painting project gone gloriously wrong. There’s no point in dredging up the past. I must be like a phoenix and rise from the ashes of my last disaster of a relationship and take a chance. Loneliness, away with you!
The candle between us flickers, casting a romantic glow on his face and the half-empty basket of garlic knots that Kyle hasn’t touched. A soft murmur of conversation hums from the other tables, and the smell of basil and baked cheese permeates theentire restaurant. This is Via dell’Amore, the crown jewel of Maplewood Springs’ Italian dining scene—which, granted, is a crown with like . . . one tiny jewel. But still, it’s cozy, twinkly, and perfect for first dates.
I twirl my linguine around my fork, trying to look both graceful and engaged. “So, what kind of music do you like?”
There it is again, the buzz of his phone which makes his hand shoot out like a cobra, snatching the phone off the table this time. A swipe of his thumb, a pause . . . and then that almost imperceptible curve of his mouth again. My teacher-sense tingles—the same one that tells me when a kid is lying about drawing on the wall.
Maybe it’s a client? He did mention running an outdoor gear subscription box business in his profile—“Tailored Treks,“ if I remember right.
Or maybe it’s another date he’s lined up for later tonight. A backup plan in case I turn out to be a dud.
Well, that train of thought derailed fast. I need to focus; all this negativity doesn’t serve me.
When he finally puts his phone down, his eyes meet mine, apologetic but distracted. “Sorry, what was your question?”
“What kind of music are you into?” I slurp a spaghetti strand that promptly flicks sauce onto my chin.
He laughs at me as he points to his own chin. “Not a very graceful eater, are you?”
I swipe at the spot with my napkin, feeling the temperature in my cheeks rise to approximately that of the sun. At least hand me something to wipe my face with, jerk. No need to laugh like I’m the punchline of a joke. “I’m a magnet for marinara, apparently,” I say.
He takes a long drink of water, like he’s just finished a triathlon instead of laughing his lungs out at my expense. “Mostly rock,” he says between gulps. “And a little country.”
His glass clinks as he sets it down, ice shifting like tiny boats crashing into one another. There is a moment of awkward silence as we dig into our dinner. I hate first dates.
“What about you?” he asks, twirling his fork through his fettuccine without actually taking a bite.
I lean in a little, the scent of garlic and tomato following me like a clingy friend. “I listen to everything—pop, rock, country, jazz—you name it. Music is so universal, there’s something to love about every genre.”
My shoulders finally relax. Here’s something I could talk about for hours. Music has been my refuge since I was little, blasting Madonna while my mom taught me to bake cookies, or singing Taylor Swift at the top of my lungs with my younger sister during our bedroom dance parties.
“And my dream is actually to be a song writer someday. I’ve been working on some lyrics that my students tell me aren’t half bad. I keep a notebook by my bed for when inspiration—“
Buzz.
He doesn’t pick it up this time, just glances at it momentarily before his attention returns to me.
