And I was laughing.
The sound bubbling up from somewhere I’d forgotten existed.
I gave up trying to fight him off and just let it happen, one hand finding that spot behind his ears while the other tried unsuccessfully to wipe dog slobber off my cheek.
“Fine,” I gasped between giggles. “Fine. We’re friends now. You win. Happy?”
He was clearly very happy. He flopped onto the couch beside me—fully on the couch now, taking up approximately two-thirds of it—and rested his giant head in my lap like this was something we did, like we’d been doing it forever.
I stroked his fur and felt my heart rate slowly return to normal. The ache in my chest was still there, but it felt smaller now. Less sharp.
“Can I ask you something?”
His ears twitched.
“Do you think it’s embarrassing that I’m sitting here being sad over a man I shouldn’t even be thinking about?”
Meatball lifted his head and let out a bark. One sharp, definitive sound, like he had strong opinions on the matter.
“That’s what I thought.” I scratched under his chin. “Very embarrassing. Incredibly pathetic. You’re not supposed to agree so fast.”
He barked again, his tail thumping against the cushions.
“Sheesh, that bad?”
I was smiling. Despite Jack on the television, despite the kiss I couldn’t stop replaying, despite the mess my heart had become—I was sitting on my couch with a dog I used to be terrified of, and I was smiling.
Ethan asked me to dinner on Friday.
I said yes because I couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse. He’d been kind to me since my first day at California Times—showing me the ropes, warning me about office politics, bringing me coffee without being asked like I was a stray cat he’d decided to adopt.
He picked me up at seven, right on time, wearing a blue button-down that brought out the warmth in his eyes. His car was clean and smelled faintly of the pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
“There’s this Italian place downtown,” he said as he pulled onto the main road. “My buddy swears by it. Apparently the carbonara is life-changing, but the decor looks like someone’s Italian grandmother exploded.”
“That’s either a warning or a selling point.”
“Honestly? Both.”
He wasn’t wrong about the decor. The restaurant had red-checkered tablecloths that belonged in a cartoon, candles stuffed into Chianti bottles that had been dripping wax for what looked like decades, and plastic grapes hanging from fake vines on the ceiling. It should have been tacky. Instead, it felt warm. Lived-in. The kind of place where no one was trying to impress anyone.
We ordered wine and bread and the famous carbonara, and Ethan told me about growing up in Vermont with three older sisters who made it their life’s mission to torment him.
“They used to dress me up,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread. “Until I was like, eight. Full makeup, the works. There are photos somewhere that could end my career.”
“Blackmail material.”
“Serious blackmail material. Katie—that’s the oldest—she threatens to post them online whenever I forget her birthday.” He grinned, and there was something infectious about it, something that made me want to smile back. “Last Christmas my mom gave me an adult-sized onesie that said ‘World’s Okayest Uncle.’ She’s not subtle about wanting grandchildren.”
“That’s aggressive.”
“That’s my mother. Zero chill. Absolutely none.” He shook his head, still smiling. “But she makes incredible pies. Like, three different kinds at Thanksgiving because she can’t pick a favorite. We had pie for breakfast for a week.”
I laughed, and it came out easier than I expected. He was good at this—filling silences, drawing people out, making them feel comfortable. The carbonara arrived—creamy, rich, the kind of food that made you want to close your eyes and savor every bite.
I should have been present. I should have been here, in this warm restaurant with this kind man who was telling me about his family and making me laugh and not checking his phone once.
Instead, part of me kept drifting somewhere else—to blue eyes, to a voice that cracked when it said my name.
