The evening rolls out the way it usually does. I boil pasta and steam vegetables while he lines toy cars along the kitchen floor. He helps stir sauce and pops one noodle into his mouth before it reaches the pot. We eat at the table.
He tells me a long story about a boy in his class who insists that dragons are real.
After dinner, there is bath water on the floor, a wet towel on my head courtesy of my son's attempt to "style" me, and the same dragon book at bedtime for the third night in a row.
By the time he is finally asleep, tucked under his blanket with his stuffed animals on either side, my shoulders feel heavy and my feet hurt, but my heart is full in a way I don't know how to explain.
I stand in his doorway for a few extra seconds, watching his slow breaths, then ease the door nearly closed.
The living room feels very still after the noise of the day.
I walk into the kitchen, reach for a bottle of wine, and pour myself a glass. The first sip loosens a knot between my shoulders.
I carry the glass to the couch and sink into the cushions, stretching my legs out in front of me.
My phone lights up on the table. A text from Tom.Still on for dinner? 8:30?
I groan under my breath. I forgot about that one. Tom is nice enough in a structured, calendar-reminder kind of way.
We've been circling each other for weeks, both pretending this might become something.
The idea of putting on real clothes after a day like this makes me want to melt into the couch, but I already said yes.
I text back,Yes, see you then,and finish the rest of my wine in one go.
Dating in my late-twenties is supposed to be mature, full of clarity and stability.
I have met enough stable men to know that stability can be the most boring thing in the world.
They don't make my pulse jump the way Gabe did. In fact, they're perfectly polite, successful, appropriate, and capable of average or good enough sex.
There is nothing wrong with them, which might be the real problem.
The sitter, Raina, arrives a few minutes later.
She is cheerful and reliable, a college student whom Jace loves. I give her quick instructions even though she already knows the routine. She waves me off. "Go have fun," she says.
Fun feels like a tall order, but I go to my room and open the closet anyway.
I pick out a black dress that fits well and doesn't need ironing. It has a low neckline and makes me feel confident.
I brush my hair, fix my lipstick, and for a moment, looking in the mirror, I almost believe I could be someone who has time for things like this.
The restaurant is loud and full of people trying to look effortless. Tom is already at a table near the bar.
He stands to kiss my cheek and smells faintly of expensive cologne.
He looks me up and down in a way that feels more like evaluation than appreciation.
"You look great," he says. "I like when you make the effort."
I smile, small and polite. "You too."
He talks a lot. About work, about a trip he's planning, about a friend who bought a boat.
I listen and nod, sip my drink, answer when needed.
The food comes. He compliments the wine list, then tells me he doesn't reallydocarbs anymore.
