I can’t deny what he says. My mother certainly never fell in love, and I can’t begin to tell you about my father’s love life. But all I know is that my mother never lived a fulfilled day in her life. Callum can’t have that future. I won’t allow it.
“But everyone should.”
“Fran—” He groans again.
“What if you went on the perfect date?”
“Perfect doesn’t exist.”
Oof. That’s what Lester told me—and I agreed. And yet, here I am, pushing for perfection. I can’t help it. It’s for Callum.
“The most romantic, most life-altering night of your life? What then?”
“That won’t happen. Contentedly not dating over here, remember?”
I slump in my seat, thinking about climbing over walls, planting flowers, and eating chocolate chip ice cream with Callum. Could it have gotten any better?
I doubt it.
Callum has to be wrong. Because while he isn’tpursuing, he is indeeddating. He may be looking for a lucky charm and trying to help me get a male perspective. But either way—wearedating. And I’d like to think it’s bringing joy into his life.
Thirty-Two
We pullinto the parking lot of Fran’s apartment building. She’s been quiet since I insisted that I was quite happily single.
“Do you want to come in?” she asks.
It’s late. But when Fran looks over at me with those sparkling amber eyes and that never-ending grin, I can’t say no to her. I’ve never known anyone with such sincere expressions. She’s the most genuine woman I’ve dated—also not dated.
She nibbles on her bottom lip. “The least I could do is get you a drink. You did drive me all the way home after playing a ninety-minute soccer game.”
“A drink sounds good,” I say.
Her smile broadens, and something inside of me blooms. It’s the same something that had me climbing over walls and planting tulips.
I follow Fran into her small apartment. The lights are off, and the place is quiet. It’s only five minutes after ten o’clock, but Rosalie is either in bed or out.
The glow from the refrigerator lights up Fran’s face. She bends, looking through her half-empty fridge. “Coke—” But before I can answer, she says, “In season.” And shakes her head. “Apple juice?”
She peers back at me, and I wrinkle my nose. “Too much sugar.”
She turns, her back to the open fridge. “What do you drink after a game?”
“Chocolate milk.”
She smirks. “Really?”
“Brian—our nutritionist and team chef—says it’s the best for muscle repair.”
She tilts her head, watching me. “And it doesn’t have too much sugar?”
I shrug.
She clamps down on her bottom lip, drawing my eyes there. Drawing me closer. Like a magnetic pull, I walk toward her. I suddenly understand the sayingmoth to a flamewith full clarity.
Fran swallows, holding her arms at her stomach. “I don’t have chocolate milk.”
Goosebumps erupt over her arms and neck, and I lift my hand to her bare upper arm, rubbing where skin meets sleeve. “Are you cold?”
