“Well,” she begins sweetly, “it started after the day we met at that little bakery. You see,” she continues, “I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. It felt like one of those chance moments that just… disappear.”
She glances at me before turning to the interviewer.
“But the next evening, I came home, and he was waiting on the steps of my apartment.”
I bite my tongue and force out a small smile, hoping it looks better than it feels.
“Oh my God… really?” The interviewer melts.
Jessica nods, biting her lip. “He said he couldn’t stop thinking about me.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
This is ridiculous.
This is—
“And he brought food,” Jessica adds, smiling softly. “Like, way too much food. He didn’t know what I liked yet, so he brought everything. Pasta, sushi, fruit, pastries…”
“This is so romantic!” the interviewer squeals.
I stare dead at the camera.
If anyone on my team sees this, I’m done.
Jessica keeps going, her voice dipping.
“And he said he wanted to show me his favorite part of the city. So he took me to the beach. Right at sunset. He’d planned a picnic.”
Jesus Christ.
I don’t do sunsets. I don’t do beaches unless I’m training. I don’t do picnics. I don’t do any of this.
But I can see it. Against my will, I see it. Her hair in the evening wind, her laughing at the waves, me spreading out a blanket.
I shake it off violently.
“And then,” Jessica says, glowing, “he helped me build a sandcastle.”
“Stop it.” The interviewer gasps.
“Not just any sandcastle,” Jessica adds shyly. “He said we should make one big enough to live in someday.”
My stomach drops. I’m mortified.
Who the fuck would say that on a first date?
“And we sat there,” Jessica whispers, “just imagining what our life would look like inside our crooked little sandcastle.”
I stare at her profile, unable to tear my eyes away, because in that stupid moment, I want the dumb picnic and the sandcastle. I want to see her laugh with sand all over her hands.
The thoughts are unwanted and unwelcome.
“So… yeah. That was our first date.” She finishes with a smile so beautiful it almost hurts.
“You two are unreal.” The interviewer looks between us.
“Yeah. Unreal.” My voice is flat, strained.
