He kisses the inside of my wrist, feather-soft. “Can I take you to dinner?”
An unsteady breath slips from me. I desperately want to say yes. I want to eat delicious food in a dimly lit restaurant, sipping wine and kissing him slowly.
But my father’s words from earlier echo through my head:She doesn’t know the meaning of hard work. If I go out to dinner with Aidan, I’ll either end up at his place or invite him back to mine. And if that happens, I won’t want it to end. I won’t finish the lighthouse plans, and Iwon’tget the team-building task organized.
All I’ll do is prove my father right.
But as I gaze up at Aidan’s open, expectant face, something else tugs at me. Something unsettling. Something I can’t name. It forces me to take a shaky step back.
“I, uh, should probably go home,” I mumble, dropping my gaze. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“Will you please let me help with the team-building event?”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but… I need to do it. And I need to do a good job.”
He touches my shoulder. “Don’t make yourself crazy over this, okay? Just order pizza and play a TED talk about teamwork. That’s the sort of thing we usually do.”
I snort a dry laugh. As if my father would ever accept something so pedestrian from me, even if it is their usual approach.
No, this needs to be different. Something that gets people excited and engaged. Otherwise, what’s the point?
More than that, I want to prove my father wrong. He thinks I’m not trying, but when everyone raves about what a memorable night it is, he’ll have to admit I pulled it off.
“At least let me drive you home?” Aidan asks, and I soften. How is he so wonderful?
“I’d love that,” I say, smiling. That sense of unease gnaws at me again, and I try to push it away.
But even as Aidan walks me to my front door and kisses me goodnight, it lingers.
29
IRIS
Ismooth my hands over my dress, glancing at my reflection in the window across the train from me. The subway is surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night, but I’m glad. It gives me a moment to calm the nerves swirling through me.
I stayed up late last night, researching ideas for team-building activities, and settled on something super fun. There’s a blacklight mini golf place in Gowanus called Glowhaus that caught my eye, and I went down a rabbit hole researching it. It’s housed in an old warehouse by the canal, with an adjoining arcade and pizza joint, as well as a bar serving everything from craft beer to cocktails. The kind of place that actually makes peoplewantto show up.
Then today, I focused on finalizing the lighthouse plans. With each stroke of my pencil across the paper, I thought of Aidan. Of what I told him yesterday, that I’d never felt like this.
Of that unsettling feeling that burrowed under my skin.
And the more I thought about it, the more desperate I grew to talk to someone. Eric and I spent Monday night dissecting my issues, and he already had plans. Besides, as good a listener asEric is, he’s never been in this position. And I need advice—real advice—about what to do.
So, I gathered my courage and reached out to the group chat. Daisy replied almost instantly, followed by the other two, and we agreed to meet in front of Poppy’s kitchen at seven. Now, as I exit the subway at Clark Street and climb into the frosty evening air, my stomach clenches with apprehension. They were all so lovely last time. Even so, I worry I’m asking too much. They don’t know me. What if they only responded out of a sense of obligation? What if they resent me for even asking?
Daisy and Violet wait outside Poppy’s place as I approach, bundled against the cold March air.
“Hey!” Daisy says, pulling me into a hug.
I stiffen awkwardly, then relax.Of course they don’t mind, I tell myself. It was their suggestion that I reach out. Savannah’s face flashes into my head, only this time she looks more like Dani, and I sigh. After years of struggling with female friendships, I never quite know what to think.
“Thanks so much for meeting me,” I say, as Violet tugs me into her arms.
“Of course!” Daisy grins. “We were talking the other day about wanting to catch up with you, but didn’t want you to feel pressured.”
“Oh,” I say, genuinely surprised. “That’s so nice.”
“Hey, guys.” Poppy appears on her stoop, closing the front door. She smiles as she descends the steps, pausing halfway when an elderly lady appears from next door and begins down her own steps. “Mrs. Sinclair?” Poppy calls in concern. “Wait there. I’ll come help.”
