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Reagan wrinkles her nose and then shakes her head forcefully, as if she’s trying to dislodge some sadness. “Nope. Not today, Sophie. Tonight’s about you and your date. I’m your biggest cheerleader. And David? You’re going to have a great time with him. I know you are. Now. I think I accidentally kicked something really promising for your outfit under your bed. It better not be wrinkled. I know neither of us has the space to store an iron.”
“That’s what the steam in the shower’s for,” I say, letting her off the hook. I worry about Reagan, and sometimes I’m afraid that I dominate our friendship with my romance drama—even as she eggs me on, telling me that she’s living vicariously through my escapades.
I wonder what it is that she’s escaping in her own relationship.
We finally settle on a simple, breezy dress that is just the right blend between dressy and casual. The hem has a fun A-line, and it’s in a shade of purple that makes my eyes pop, especially with the right makeup.
“Perfect,” Reagan says, twirling me down the hallway, both of our faces a little flushed. “Now, you better be home by nine p.m. sharp, missy. This is a school night, and your father and I are going to be worried.”
We both laugh, and she heads out a short while later to let me finish getting ready.
I meet David at a restaurant he proposed, something that just opened up and is really hard to get a reservation at for most people. Thankfully, David isn’t most people—he knows one of the line cooks, who has been able to sneak us into an opening from another canceled reservation.
It’s packed inside, and David and I have to lean across the tiny bistro table and shout to make ourselves heard over the other conversations and the music playing over the speakers.
“You look really pretty tonight,” he says, biting back a curse as his tie takes a dip into his water glass. “Sorry. I never wear ties. I just felt like I should. I’m glad I did. You’re really dressed up. I mean, not in a bad way. And earlier, when I said that you look really pretty, I hope that you know you look pretty all the time. It’s not special. I mean, it is special. Thanks for wearing that. Not that you had to.”
“No, I know what you mean,” I say, giving him a smile. David is so nervous that it’s making me nervous.
It’s not the same as butterflies. But it is normal. And as unromantic as normal is, it’s actually kind of nice.
I’m not sitting here on the edge of my seat, wondering when David’s going to change and give me the cold shoulder. I’m not walking on eggshells, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing.
Dinner is nice—we both spring for the chef’s special, which is an arrangement of seafood that the line cook has been talking up to David and all the rest of their mutual friends. And David is also nice, once he gets over the hurdle of nerves plaguing him.
“You know, I’ve never asked out a customer before,” he informs me as the waiter takes up our mostly empty plates. “This is something I don’t regularly do. Or, you know, ever.”
“It’s probably best not to mix business with pleasure,” I say, unable to avoid thinking about Declan.
“Fair,” David says. “Okay. I’ll quit. Or you just need to stop coming to the shop. Which one should we do?”
I laugh. “Don’t put that decision on me. You’re the closest coffee shop to my work. And those lavender lattes have changed my life.”
“I guess I’ll quit, then,” he muses. “Time to really make a go of my music career.”
“You play an instrument?” I ask, not sure whether he’s extending the joke.
“Guitar, actually,” David says. “Do you think less of me now?”
“Why in the world would I do that?”
He shrugs before immediately snatching the check as the waiter returns with it. “It just seems so cliche, right? Starving artist, trying to pursue their art. Having to debase themselves by working at a dead-end job to pay the rent.”
I try to get the check back from him. “Speaking of paying, I can’t let you pay for this. This place is so nice. Come on. Let’s at least split it. You just said you’re a starving artist. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if those scallops put you out on the streets.”
“No, no,” David says, sliding his credit card into the leather holder and pushing it out of my reach. “This was my idea. And it’s my treat. You might have to start paying for your lattes though.”
“I’ve been trying to from the start,” I point out with a laugh. “Now. Guitar. Are you in a band? Who’s your favorite guitarist?”
Our conversation flows easily, and we take a stroll along the Hudson to try to walk off dinner. Everything about our time together is perfectly fine.
It’s just… there aren’t any sparks. I could see David as a good friend. But I can’t imagine kissing him—or wanting to.
Just when I’m starting to regret agreeing to come out with him—and having him waste his hard-earned money on a dinner that’s not going to amount to much of anything else—David points out an ice cream shop.
“Do you think you could manage a cone?” he asks. “This place is famous. They’re always coming out with new versions of the old classics.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Oh, shit.”
