By the time I shut the door behind us, I'm still embarrassed, but then the smell of the food hits me, and just like that, my favorite Thursday tradition brings me to a happy place.
“You wanna change?” he asks over his shoulder as he starts setting the takeout on the coffee table. “I'll set it up.”
“I do. And I don't say this lightly… Thank you for rescuing me from both cooking and pants.”
“You're welcome. But please do put on some kind of pants.” His voice gets louder as I walk out of the room and down the hall. “You can pay me back with one of your homemade desserts.”
“Done!” I'm grinning as I disappear into the bedroom. I swap my pencil skirt and blazer for soft shorts and a tank, twist my hair into a bun, and return to find Brandon's spread of plates,napkins, and utensils and arranged food. He's sitting on his side of the sectional, already halfway through his garlic bread.
“Yours is the chicken parm,” he says, pointing with a fork. “I got us both the salad we like. And if you touch my cannoli without asking, I can't be held responsible for what might happen.”
“Noted.”
I slide onto the couch and pull my plate toward me. Without thinking, I reach over and steal some of his chicken marsala. He doesn't even blink. Two bites later, he's cutting off a piece of chicken parm from my plate.
“How do you do it?” I blurt out , then immediately regret how desperate it sounds. “I mean…how are you so sure of yourself with people?”
Brandon laughs, but not in a mean way. “You think I'm sure of myself? Stella, half the time I'm just winging it and hoping nobody notices.”
He takes another bite. “But here's the thing. Even when I'm nervous or don't know what I'm doing, I act like I do. Fake it till you make it actually works. Your brain starts to believe what you're telling it. Also, turns out most people are too worried about their own stuff to judge you as harshly as you think they are.”
“I think my problem is I don't even know what confident looks like when it comes to dating. Like, what am I supposed to fake? Flirting? Being charming? I have no idea what I'm aiming for.” I slump back against the couch.
“You aim to be yourself. Your thoughts, your wants, your presence—they all matter. And any man worth your time will want to see all of that, not some watered-down version you think he'll approve of.”
I nod, but the swirl in my chest doesn't quiet. It's a mix of nerves and pressure and something else I don't know how to describe just yet.
Brandon stabs another piece of chicken off my plate without asking.
“If you wanted chicken parm, why didn't you get your own?”
He just smirks like he knows exactly what he's doing.
I shake my head and lean back, studying him for a beat. “You just make everything look easy.”
“That's because it is easy,” he says around another stolen bite.
“Not for me.” I swirl my glass in my hand, and the thought slips out before I can stop it. “Maybe one day you'll have to teach me how you do it.”
His grin tilts, lazy and amused. “Careful, Rhodes. You ask for lessons, I'm charging by the hour.”
I laugh and clink my glass against his, brushing it off like a joke. But somewhere in the back of my mind, the idea of Brandon actually teaching me doesn't sound like the worst thing.
four
. . .
Stella
I'm balancingon one leg, with the other extended behind me, trying to focus on breathing through my nose while thinking about the off-handed comment Brandon made last night about lessons. I want them. The idea that he could help me get more comfortable and confident around guys makes my heart rate pick up, which isn't helping my already wobbly balance.
I lower my back leg and step into a deep lunge, feeling the stretch along my hip. Then I slowly rise, turning my back foot sideways and sinking into a wide stance. My heel presses down, steady and strong, as I extend my arms out to either side. I root through my feet and breathe into the stretch, letting my mind float back to the possibility of no longer being the single girl in a sea of couples. My mother would be ecstatic.
Natalie's voice floats through the room. “Ground through your feet. Find where you're holding tension. Let it go.”
I take a deep breath and think about all the tension that would be released if I could actually get a date and some regular sex. It's not exactly my mom's version of happily ever after, but to be fair, that looks more like me being married by now. She wants wedding bells and grandchildren. The fact that I'mtwenty-five and single is basically a personal failing on my part—never mind that I have a career I love and a life that's actually pretty great.
It's not that my mother's pushing is mean-spirited—quite the opposite. She genuinely wants me to be happy, settled, and taken care of. The problem is, I'm just not sure that is my idea of happiness.
