Finally, Tommy walked over. "What's all the commotion?"
"Morrison's cooking dinner for Lucy tonight and he has no idea what to make," Marcus explained.
Tommy considered this. "You trying to impress her or feed her?"
"Both? Neither? I don't know."
"Make something simple that you can't mess up. Roast chicken, vegetables, maybe some potatoes. Classic, straightforward, hard to ruin."
"I can definitely ruin a roast chicken."
"Then call your mother and ask her to walk you through it. She made you dinner for eighteen years—she knows what you like and what you can handle." Tommy clapped Jake on the shoulder. "And Morrison? Stop overthinking. Lucy likes you.She's not coming over to judge your culinary skills. She's coming over to spend time with you."
After practice, Jake sat in his truck and called his mom.
"Jake! Twice in one weekend. What's going on?"
"I need help. I'm making dinner for Lucy tonight and I have no idea what I'm doing."
His mom laughed—warm and delighted. "You're cooking for her? Jake, that's wonderful."
"It would be more wonderful if I knew how to cook."
"You know how to cook. You just don't do it often. What were you thinking of making?"
"Tommy suggested roast chicken."
"Perfect. Simple, impressive, and nearly impossible to mess up if you follow instructions." His mom walked him through the recipe—what to buy, how to prep, what temperature and timing. She made him write it all down, twice, to make sure he had it.
"Mom? Thank you. For everything. For understanding about Nashville."
"Honey, I'm proud of you. Not for turning it down—for knowing what you wanted and choosing it. That's brave."
"I don't feel brave. I feel terrified."
"That's how you know it matters. Now go to the store, buy your ingredients, and don't forget fresh herbs. They make everything look fancy."
Jake spent the rest of the morning at the grocery store, carefully selecting everything on his list. Chicken, potatoes, vegetables, fresh rosemary (which he'd never used but his mom swore by),a bottle of wine (for cooking and drinking), and—on impulse—flowers. Not roses because that felt too serious, but a mixed bouquet that the florist assured him was "casually romantic."
By 2 PM, Jake was back in his apartment, staring at all the ingredients spread across his tiny kitchen counter and wondering what he'd gotten himself into.
His phone buzzed. Lucy.
Lucy:Still on for tonight?
Jake:Absolutely. 7 PM?
Lucy:Perfect. Should I bring anything?
Jake:Just yourself. And maybe low expectations.
Lucy:My expectations are extremely high actually. You've been eating my cooking for three years. Time to return the favor.
Jake:No pressure then.
Lucy:I'm kidding. I'm just excited to spend time with you. Even if the food is terrible.
Jake:It won't be terrible. Probably.
