Because for all the comfort I had found in his clothes, in his house, in the way he made me feel safe, tonight was special. Tonight was about stepping out with him in public, just the two of us, a declaration without saying a single word.
Brooks was taking me out. On a real date.
Cue inner teenage girl squeal.
And of course, he had done it the most Brooks way imaginable: blunt, decisive, and with zero room for argument.
It had started with a text exchange two days ago:
Brooks
Do you have plans Friday night after the game?
Me
Other than a pint of ice cream and the new ID docuseries about those kids who murdered their parents, not really.
Brooks
Record it. We’re going out.
Me
Out where?
Brooks
On a date.
Me
Like a date . . . date?
He had followed that one up with the detective emoji. I didn’t know what had been more surprising—the fact that Brooks wanted to take me on a date or the fact that he used emojis.
Me
Since when do we go on dates?
Brooks
Since I pulled my head out of my ass.
I’d stared at the screen for a solid five minutes, trying to figure out if he was joking. But then another text had come through:
Brooks
Wear something warm and comfortable. I’ll take care of the rest.
It hadn’t been flowery or over the top—it was just him—and yet, that had been all it’d taken to light me up. And it had had nothing to do with the pregnancy hormones.
“This is cute,” Nessa said, holding up a green-and-pink floral-print maternity dress I had found on sale last weekend. It was a tadSpongeBob SquarePantswith a pinch ofThe Brady Bunch, and something about it had called out to me. “Not too fancy, not too casual.”
Nessa had been rooting through my closet like a woman on a mission for nearly an hour.
“He said to dress warm.”
“Fucking Oregon,” Nessa grumbled. Having been born and raised in Rose City, she knew the Pacific Northwest weather better than the rest of us. “Show me the rest of your new maternity wear haul.”
