I nod.
“I promise he’s handsome,” Lorraine says.
I can see it. He’s got a sort of nerd-chic thing going on, but there’s kindness in his eyes.
Ten minutes ago, I was done with apps and men and dating. But now? Something inside me gives me a little nudge. I smile at Lorraine and say, “Sure, give him my number.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Miles shift his weight, like he’s uncomfortable. Or annoyed. Or anxious to get out of here.
“Perfect!” Lorraine pulls out her phone and rushes off, leaving me standing here with Miles.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He shrugs in a not-usual-Miles way. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
I try to joke with him. “Did you have a bad dental experience? Is that why you’re—?”
“It’s not that,” he says, cutting me off. “I just thought you were trying not to have boring dates.”
“At this point, a boring date would be dreamy,” I say. “A boring date would be bliss. The last few have been a littletooeventful.”
“I had a great next date picked out for you—”
“Well, now you don’t have to waste your time with my love life,” I say, likethat’s that. “Lorraine is on the case.” I nod toward the front gate. “Coffee walk?”
He looks at his watch, then at me. “Sure.”
I start off in the direction of the empty storefront. I just like to look—almost like I’m checking on it or something. It’s about twenty minutes from my apartment—totally walkable. Another plus.
Not that I’m collecting pluses about a building.
That would be silly.
Miles and I stop for coffee at a coffee truck, and once we have our drinks, I keep going in the direction of the storefront.
“Why are you walking so fast?” he asks.
“Am I?” I slow my pace, only now realizing I’m excited to get back to the empty space. Excited. An emotion I haven’t felt in years.
I’m just window-shopping, remember.
He gives me a quizzical look. “What’s going on with you?”
“What?” I take a drink of my latte. “Nothing.”
“You’re acting weird.” He shrugs. “I mean weirder than usual.”
“Ha ha,” I retort, but something is off. His jokes aren’t really... jokes. There’s no lightness to them for some reason. Like he’s trying to sort something out.
Like he’s genuinely curious.
I bump his shoulder with my own, then think about the object of my affection—an empty building and a daydream.
And for whatever reason, I want to tell him about it.
Instead, I say, “Oh! Do you play pickleball? I got invited and we need a fourth.”
“You play pickleball?” he asks.
