“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The song. You timed it.”
“Ryan Abrams.” Oliver’s voice is mock-offended. “Are you suggesting I would manipulate the radio to create a romantic atmosphere for our first official date?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” He reaches over, taking my hand and threading our fingers together. “You’d be absolutely right.”
We drive through campus as the sun begins its descent, painting everything in gold. Students walk in pairs and groups, enjoying the warm evening, and I catch a few of them staring at the Jeep as we pass. Staring at us. I wonder whether we look as happy as we feel.
The Jeep turns onto the main road, heading away from campus. The familiar landmarks of Berkeley Shore fade behind us—the coffee shops, bookstores, diners, and pizza places that have become the backdrop of my college life. Wherever Oliver is taking me, it’s somewhere new.
“Can I ask you something?” I say as we pass the city limits sign.
“Always.”
“Why a tux? I mean, I’m not complaining, but it seems elaborate for a first date.”
Oliver is quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of my hand. When he speaks, his voice is softer than usual. “Because you deserve elaborate. Because I’ve been waiting years for this, and I wanted it to be special. Because…” He pauses, seeming to search for words. “Because I wanted to give you a new memory. One that doesn’t hurt.”
My throat tightens. “Oliver…”
“Too much?” He glances at me, suddenly uncertain. “I know I can be intense sometimes. If it’s too much, we can turn around. Go somewhere casual. I just wanted?—”
“It’s not too much.” I lift our joined hands and press a kiss on his knuckles. “It’s perfect.”
37
OLIVER
One second, I’m helping Ryan out of the Jeep in a parking lot that looks like any other parking lot, and the next, we’re stepping through velvet curtains into what can only be described as stepping into the past. Crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs. Booths upholstered in deep burgundy leather curve around the perimeter. A stage dominates the far wall, where a full band is setting up, instruments gleaming under the soft golden lights.
“Oliver.” Ryan breathes. “What is this place?”
“The Blue Moon Nightclub.” I rest my hand on the small of his back, guiding him further inside. “It’s been here since the fifties. My parents met here.”
His head swivels toward me, eyes wide. “Your parents?”
“Yeah. Dad even proposed to Mom at that table over there.” I point to a corner booth, slightly elevated, with a small brass plaque I can’t read from here, but I know it saysReserved for Romance. “I called ahead. That’s our table tonight.”
The sound Ryan makes sits somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about family historyordinner reservations.”
A host in a tuxedo approaches us, his silver hair slicked back ina style that hasn’t been fashionable in sixty years but somehow works perfectly here. “Mr. Jacoby? Your table is ready. Right this way.”
We follow him through the club, weaving between tables filled with couples in various states of elegant dress. Some are older, clearly regulars who remember when this kind of place was the norm rather than the exception. Others are younger, dressed up for what I’m guessing are special occasions. Anniversary dinners. Proposals. First dates that matter.
Our booth is everything I remembered from the one time my parents brought me here for my eighteenth birthday. The leather is super soft, the table set with crisp white linens, and more silverware than any meal should require. A single candle flickers in a crystal holder, casting dancing shadows across Ryan’s face as he slides in across from me.
“This is incredible.” Ryan surveys the room with the wonder of someone seeing magic for the first time. “I didn’t even know places like this still existed.”
“Most don’t.” I accept the leather-bound menus from our host and pass one to Ryan. “This one survived because the owner’s family refused to modernize. They figured if people wanted the past, they should get the real thing.”
Ryan runs his fingers over the menu’s embossed cover, and I watch his expression shift from wonder to something deeper. “My mother would have loved this.”
I reach across the table and find his hand, threading our fingers together. “I hoped she would have. I mean—I hopedyouwould. Because of her.”
