I shake my head, still smiling. “I can’t believe you’re my dating coach.”
She smirks. “I can. I’m excellent at logistics and emotional crowd control.”
That sets us both off.
I head towards the bedroom, still chuckling, thinking that, whatever happens tonight, at least I’ll have a good story.
And a goblin-approved escape plan.
17
Pea-Lime Punishment
Geoff
The pub is alreadybusy when I get there, which immediately puts it in my good books. Busy means no spotlight. No awkward empty-room energy. Just people minding their own business and not noticing the tall man hovering by the door like he’s waiting for instructions.
Sophia is easy to spot. Small table by the window, coat off, phone face down, glass of white wine already on the go. She looks up, smiles, and stands like this is the most natural thing in the world and not a scenario my brain has been rehearsing for forty-eight hours.
“Hi,” she says. “You made it.”
“I did,” I say. “I’d like credit for not getting lost.”
She laughs. That’s encouraging. Laughter is good. Laughter means I haven’t said anything actively alarming yet.
We sit. I gesture vaguely at her glass.
“Another?”
“Yes, please. Sauvignon Blanc.”
Simple. Clear. Bless her.
I head to the bar and return with her wine and my pint, managing not to spill anything, knock into anyone, or announce that this is a first date and I’m trying very hard. I sit back down and feel like I’ve passed a low-level exam.
She asks how my day’s been and I have to actively stop myself from answering with a detailed emotional status update.
“Good,” I say. “Fairly uneventful. And I’m learning to appreciate that.”
“That sounds healthy,” she says.
Christa would call that growth and then immediately ruin it by pointing out something else I’m doing wrong.
Sophia tells me about her work, charity comms, and a meeting that should have been an email... an email that absolutely should not have been sent on a Friday. I listen and nod at the right points, relieved to discover that my face still knows how to do that without instruction.
When she asks what I do, I feel the usual split second where my brain tries to decide which version of myself to present. The glamorous one. The retired one. The quietly panicking one.
“I used to travel a lot for work,” I say. “Photography. I teach a bit now.”
She tilts her head. “Do you miss it?”
I consider lying. I consider oversharing. I land somewhere in the middle.
“Some of it,” I say. “Mostly I miss being able to say I’m very busy and sound important.”
That gets a real laugh out of her.
“That’s honest,” she says.
