“Have you smelled them?” I ask.
“No.”
I nod toward the flowers. Alex kneels and leans in, taking a big, purposeful whiff. He smiles and laughs a little. “They smell like chocolate.”
“Don’t be fooled. They’re toxic to eat.”
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Up until this very moment, I wasn’t convinced you weren’t in league with theGarden Girleditor in chief.”
“Don’t rule it out yet. I’m wooing you into trusting me.”
He stands back up, and I follow suit. “When I go to LA for that conference, can you take it to your place?”
I roll my eyes even though the way he’s fussing over this plant is endearing. “Alex, it’s not a puppy. It might dry out a little, but it’ll be fine.”
He frowns. “You can’t force me to get a living thing and then tell me it’ll be fine if it sort of dies. I’m leaving you with a key.”
When we head downstairs, a gust of fall weather threads into my hair. We walk to a bakery two blocks over that Alex promises me is to die for. “They have twice-baked almond croissants,” he tells me as we’re led to our table.
I brighten up as we sit down. “Hey, I’m not allergic to almonds!”
Alex unwraps his silverware. “Thank God. I would have had to cart you out of here. They’re that good.”
We peruse the menu and order a carafe of coffee to share. I don’t miss the way our waitress eyes Alex appreciatively. He’s got the weekend look nailed, projecting a well-rested but disheveled air that makes you want to know how he’s spending his Saturday so you can re-create it for yourself, or even ask if he’d like some company and maybe a blow job on the house.
“One check or two?”
“Two,” I say at the same time Alex says, “One.”
He holds up a finger when I start to protest. “Let me pick up your tab as a birthday gift?”
There’s a genuine question in his eyes, like he’s really asking me if I’m okay with it and not demanding me to agree.
“Thank you,” I murmur softly.
The waitress leaves, and Alex picks up his menu, hiding behind it. I grasp the table on either side, look out the window—sidebar: Is that @dudewithsign who just walked past with a stack of blank cardboard?—and take a moment to gather my bearings.
Because the truth is…
The truth. Is. Even though I’ve been ignoring it, I’m not so delusional as to think there isn’t a word for what’s going on here.
“Dating.” The word is “dating.”
Hooking up, exclusively. Hanging out one-on-one. Taking care of someone’s plants when they’re out of town. Asking questions about each other’s past. Offering to pick up the tab.
This is whatdatingis like.
But Alex and I… We’re not dating.
Are we?
I know dating can mean about a million different things. Some people do it with an endgame in mind, dating with the intent to be in a relationship. To have a life partner, build a future, sacrifice things for the sake of each other’s happiness and all that jazz. But others date to stay entertained. It’s just a hobby to pass your time until the tide of either of your lives takes a turn. You don’t ever break up, but at some point, you’re just not dating the other person anymore.
I’m starting to wonder, as I sit in this gorgeous café with this gorgeous male specimen on this gorgeous Saturday morning, mildly hungover, mascara under my eyes, teeth unbrushed, and unbothered by it all—if this is what’s happening between Alex and me. If we’re dating by the second definition of the word. It would make sense, considering that’s pretty much how dating has operated for me since I moved to New York. Alex is likely in the same boat.
“I’ll have the breakfast sandwich,” he says, putting down his menu. He must catch my far-off expression because he waves two fingers at me. “Case? You there?”
“Sorry.” I give my head a small jerk. That’s when I notice our waitress is back, pen and pad in her hand, our coffee on the table. “Oh! The omelet, please.”
