Zoe blushes slightly. “Your mom might have recommended it for tonight.”
“She does love a restaurant with a view,” Camila says, trying not to feel weird about the fact that her mom knows she’s on a date right now, but not because of her.
“Is that weird?” Zoe asks, biting her lip.
A knot forms in Camila’s stomach. She wants to say that it absolutely is, but not for the reason Zoe would think. And if she said that, she’d have to explain to her why, and Camila doesn’t know what the etiquette is around telling your father’s coworker about all the ways his wife has hurt their child. So Camila settles for saying, “No, not at all.”
A server comes by and drops off menus; they look over them in silence, and a few minutes later, the same server stops by for their orders. Camila opts for red wine and curry.
“Same for me, please,” Zoe says.
The server scribbles down their orders before vanishing into the bustling restaurant.
Minutes later, he drops off both of their drinks.
Zoe takes a sip of her wine. “Thank you for coming,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever agree.”
Camila laughs a little self-consciously, rubbing herthumb along the edge of her napkin. “I didn’t mean to put it off for so long; I just haven’t been on a date in a while.”
Zoe tilts her head. “Why is that? Can’t imagine you struggle for attention.”
“Long story,” Camila says, not quite ready to share with Zoe, which strikes her as odd, because she did so effortlessly with Valeria. Granted, Valeria was going through a similar situation.
The moment hangs for half a second before Zoe smiles and lets it go, mercifully changing the subject. They talk about safer things. Camila’s job. Zoe’s work at the firm. Their pets. Camila mentions the book she just finished. Zoe keeps up easily—quick and sharp, genuinely funny.
The date is, honestly, going great. Easy. By the time they order dessert, Camila is almost disappointed it has to end at all, and it’s as if Zoe read her mind.
“So,” Zoe says, before biting her bottom lip. “I’m not quite ready to end this date.”
Camila arches an eyebrow.
“My place isn’t far. We could ... continue the evening there. No pressure.”
“Lead the way,” Camila says with little thought. She’s genuinely excited to hang out with Zoe, but she can’t decide if it’s because she likes Zoe or if it’s because she sees something more.
They ask for their check, and Camila pays, even as Zoe protests that the dinner was her idea and that she should have paid.
“You’ll have to be quicker next time.” Camila smiles.
“Next time?” Zoe arches an eyebrow. “I like the sound of that.”
They walk out of the restaurant, hop into Camila’s car, and, five minutes later, they end up at Zoe’s place,where Picasso—Zoe’s golden retriever—welcomes them by knocking Camila to the floor and licking her face for what seemed like hours. Once Zoe has Picasso under control, they leave their shoes by the door and Camila’s coat slung over a chair.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Zoe asks.
“No, thank you. If I have any more, I won’t make it home.”
Zoe shrugs. “I don’t see the problem with that.”
Camila shakes her head and smiles to herself, her cheeks warming despite her best efforts.
Zoe grabs Camila a glass of water and a glass of wine for herself. They sit by the fireplace, talking about a dinner party Zoe went to with her parents last week, her last trip abroad. All the topics are superficial; one hour turns into two without either of them noticing until Camila yawns.
She peeks at her phone and realizes it’s later than she thought; the time reads 10 p.m. already.
“I should head out,” Camila says.
Zoe pouts but nods. They each stand, and Zoe walks Camila to the door.
