“Oh—hi,” I manage. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good. How are you?” Her gaze drops to the book in my hands. “Changing your eating habits?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s—um—research for a friend.”
Her brows lift. “Oh. Okay.”
I nod too much. Like a bobblehead trying to prove it’s not nervous.
Maggie shifts the stack of books in her arms. “Since you’re here…” She hesitates, a flicker of softness crossing her expression that flips my stomach. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to get dinner sometime. My Saturday is free.”
Oh. Oh no. The air thins instantly. A week ago, I would have jumped at the opportunity for a second chance. A do-over. Proof that I’m not the guy who ruins soup. But my mind doesn’t go there. It drifts to Nora and the way her eyes shine when she thinks no one’s watching.
“I—” I start, then stop, trying to find the words without making it sound like I’m walking away from a third chance. “Actually,” I say instead, opting for the least messy version of the truth, “I’m busy this weekend. A work thing.”
Maggie’s smile doesn’t fall. Not completely, but something shifts as if she opened a door expecting a room and found a hallway instead. “Oh. Okay. Well… maybe another time.”
“Maybe,” I reply, softer than I intend. “I’d like that.”
Her gaze lingers on my face, weighing whether that “maybe” is real or just polite. Then she switches gears. “Is there anything I can help you find?”
I tuck the cookbook under my arm. “Actually, yes. I’m looking for books on multiple sclerosis. I’m not sure where to start.”
Her expression changes instantly, less about dinner, more about purpose. “Of course. Follow me.” She turns and leads me past the cookbooks and into a quieter aisle. Stopping at a shelf, Maggie trails a finger along the spines before pulling out a few titles. “These are medical overviews, and we also have some autobiographical books as well. If you want, I can help you find reputable resources through our database.”
“Okay,” I swallow. “I’ll let you know if I need help.”
Our fingers brush against each other as she passes me a book. It’s quick. But nothing like the other day at the RC park with Nora. I adjust the stack of books in my arms, the weight of them anchoring me.
She retreats a step. “If you need anything else, I’m at the front desk.”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
She lingers for half a second, as if she might say more, but instead offers a small smile and walks away. I stand there between the shelves, holding a cookbook and two books about MS, and it hits me. I came here looking for answers, but the only thing I’m certain of is that whatever is happening with Nora and Diane started as a simple deal. A transaction. Clear terms. Defined expectations. Only it’s rapidly becoming something I can’t categorize. Which is… terrifying. And, if I’m being honest, it resembles flying.
Eleven
Serious Is Overrated
Nora
Even after twenty-four hours have passed, I’m still agonizing over why I agreed to dating lessons with Miles. On paper, it’s simple. He wants practice. Confidence. He wants to stop being Miles on dates so he can finally impress Maggie. But my brain won’t let go of the obvious follow-up. Why me? Sure, on the outside I’m oozing with confidence, but when it comes to relationships, I’m kind of a fraud. I know what it’s like to stand on the outside of something everyone else seems to navigate effortlessly.
In high school, I was the girl who didn’t get asked to the dance unless someone needed a pity date—or a ride. I laughed it off as if it didn’t matter, but afterward I went home and buried my face in my pillow, wondering why I tried so hard. College was a little better… or maybe I mastered the art of pretending. There were dates, and a few questionable one-night stands that confirmed I definitely have a type. There were even a couple of relationships that almost stuck, but the second things got too comfortable, I bailed. And now I’m building an app that isn’t about finding love at all. It’s about looking like you did, so people stop judging you for not having it figured out. And in the middle of all that, I’ve agreed to fake date a man in black-rimmed glasses who is wildly outside my comfort zone.
By the time I pull into my mom’s driveway, my jaw aches. I grab the still-warm casserole dish from the passenger seat and make a halfhearted attempt to look like someone who has it together. At the door, I knock twice before letting myself in.
“Hey, Mom,” I call, toeing off my shoes. “I brought food.”
“I’m in the living room,” she answers.
She’s in her recliner with a blanket over her legs, hair pulled back, posture a little too stiff, as if her body is trying to decide what to do with itself. The TV murmurs in the background, but she isn’t watching it. Instead, she’s watching me, the way she always does, like she can read the whole day in the slope of my shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I needed something to do,” I reply, setting the casserole on the counter. “Do you want a plate? I can dish you up.”
“I’m okay right now. Save it for later.”
“Okay.” I set the dish to the side. “Something to drink?” I open the fridge and stand there for a second longer than necessary, letting the cool air hit my face as Miles takes over my brain again.
