15. Myles
FIFTEEN
MYLES
I stand in front of the mirror in Tristan's bedroom, staring at my reflection. I'd come over before heading out for my date with Marco. A bundle of nervous energy is roiling inside me, and I needed Tristan's calm nature to help soothe me.
My hands shake as I comb my fingers through my hair. The air is laced with the scent of cologne and anticipation. But it's been so long—two decades—since my last date. How did I even get here?
"Relax, Myles," Tristan says, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. "You'll do great tonight."
"Easy for you to say," I grumble. My heart races like a freight train, threatening to derail any moment.
"Seriously, man. You're overthinking this." Tristan's smile is warm, but his eyes betray a hint of sadness.
"Am I?" I ask, my voice wavering. I look down at my outfit, a button-down shirt and slacks. "Is it too little? Too much? Does it scream 'I'm trying too hard'?" I worry aloud, chewing my lip.
Tristan chuckles. "No, Myles, it doesn't. Look, all you need to do is be yourself, okay?" Tristan reassures me, his tone light. "Marco already likes you."
"Right." I nod, trying to swallow my nerves. The taste of anxiety coats my tongue. "Just be myself. I can do that... I think."
"Good," Tristan says, walking towards me and resting his hands on my shoulders. "Now take a deep breath."
I inhale deeply, the air from the AC filling my lungs. More than anything, I want this night to go well. For Marco. For myself. And maybe for Tristan. My head's a mess, because that doesn't even make sense.
"So ..." I begin, my voice shaky. "I don't know how to approach this with Nix. He's only 8, and I haven't dated since... well, since his mom."
"Hey, it's okay." Tristan gives me a reassuring smile, but I can't help but notice the slight stiffness in it. "You don't have to talk to him about it right now. You don't even know if things will work out with Marco yet."
I nod, trying to take comfort in his words, but my thoughts are a tangled mess of nerves and confusion.
If only Tristan knew how much I’d rather go on a date with him than with anyone else.
We click in so many way. But unfortunately for me, he’s not interested in a serious relationship right now, if ever.
If he were available, I would’ve asked him out on a date in a New York minute.
His cologne, a combination of sandalwood, with the hint of sweet vanilla, fills my nostrils as he leans in closer to me, providing a momentary distraction.
"Besides," he continues, "Nix is a well-adjusted kid, mature beyond his years.
When the time comes for you to talk to him, I'm sure he'll be supportive. "
"But what if he thinks I don't love his mom anymore?" I blurt out, the fear gripping my chest. "Cara was everything to me, and I don't want Nix to think I've stopped loving her because I'm dating someone new."
"Listen." Tristan's voice is firm but gentle. "Nix is smart, and he knows how much you loved his mom. He won't think that, trust me."
"Thanks for saying that." I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. But even as
Tristan reassures me, I can't help but notice his responses seem a bit reserved, his smiles forced. Is there something else going on beneath the surface?
"Of course," he replies, his tone light, but not entirely convincing. "That's what friends are for, right?" He gives my shoulders a reassuring squeeze before dropping his hands to his sides.
"Right." I try to dismiss my concerns, focusing on the present. The soft fabric of the shirt Tristan helped me pick out from my closet the day before brushes against my skin, a reminder of the date that awaits me.
"Remember, Myles, etiquette is key."
"Etiquette?" I repeat under my breath, panic rising in my chest. "Oh god, what's even considered good etiquette nowadays?"
My jittery hands fumble with the doorknob, and I curse internally. Get a grip, Myles. You're a grown man.
"Hey, it's not that big of a deal," Tristan says, appearing behind me. "Just be polite and listen to him, okay?"
"Okay." I exhale slowly, trying to drown out the doubt gnawing at my insides. "I can do that."
"Remember," Tristan adds with a playful wink, "don't do anything you're not comfortable with."
"Trust me," I chuckle, "I won't."
"Good." He pats me on the back, his touch warm and reassuring. "Now go get 'em." But again, his expression seems sad, almost fearful. With a final nod, I turn away from him, trying to quell the unease in my gut.
With a weak smile, I leave Tristan’s room, my legs feeling like jelly. As I close the door behind me, I steal one last glance at Tristan. His smile definitely seems forced now, but I can't help but feel grateful for his support. I just hope I don't screw this up.
As I step outside, the cool air nips at my face, a stark contrast to the fire of the nerves burning inside me. The streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. My thoughts race between Nix, Marco, and the lingering worry about Tristan's odd behavior. But for now, I have a date to get to.
I step into the cozy, Italian restaurant, the warm scent of garlic and herbs hitting me like a comforting embrace.
The dim lighting casts a romantic glow over the tables adorned with red-checkered tablecloths.
I spot Marco at a corner table, looking even better than his dating profile pictures, but still not as handsome as the man who’d help me get ready for this date.
Tristan and I had hung out at a restaurant once, but we’d only been there because I felt I owed him a ‘thank you’ for rescuing my son and me from my kitchen disaster.
I sigh mentally. It’s wishful thinking wanting to be on a date with a guy who’s more interested in helping and befriending a clueless, older guy than dating him.
"Hey!" Marco exclaims when he sees me, standing up to greet me with a firm handshake. His smile reaches his eyes, and I can tell he's genuinely excited for our date.
"Hi, Marco." My stomach flips with nerves. "You found the place okay, then?" I smile, trying to hide my nervousness.
"Absolutely, it's a charming little spot." He gestures for me to sit down before retaking his seat. "So, Myles, tell me about yourself."
We dive into conversation, sharing bits and pieces of our lives.
He tells me about his passion for teaching sixth-grade students, the satisfaction of seeing their growth throughout the year.
"There's something profoundly satisfying about watching them become independent thinkers," he gushes, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
"Sounds rewarding," I reply sincerely. But in my head, I wonder if I could ever feel that passionate about anything again. Since Cara's passing, everything feels duller, less vibrant... except when I'm with Tristan and Nix.
As we share a plate of bruschetta, Marco regales me with stories about his latest hiking trip and the breathtaking views from the summit.
The way he describes it makes me want to lace up my boots and hit the trails.
Our entrees arrive—he's having lasagna, while I opted for shrimp scampi—and we seamlessly transition to discussing books.
“You mentioned in your profile you like fantasy. Have you read 'The Night Circus'?" he asks, swirling pasta around his fork. "Magical realism isn't usually my thing, but this one was enchanting."
"Actually, yes!" I say, surprised. "It's a beautiful story. The imagery is vivid."
"Exactly!" He grins. "I'm glad you get it."
Marco is easy-going and friendly, so much so that I didn't even realize how the nervousness I’d been fighting before had simply disappeared.
Despite feeling relaxed with him, I can't shake the nagging thought that Marco would be an amazing friend…
but not a life partner, not even someone I'd like to date.
"Enough about me, though," Marco says, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "What about you? What do you do?"
I chuckle before answering. "I used to be a sports agent. Managed some top athletes, negotiating contracts and endorsements."
"That must have been exciting!" he exclaims, eyes wide with interest.
"Yeah, it had its moments," I admit, smiling. "You wouldn't believe some of the stories I have."
"Give me a taste," Marco urges, leaning in conspiratorially.
"Alright, there was this one athlete—I won't name names—who’s known for his precision on the field. He was challenged to a pie-eating contest.”
“Tell me about it.” Marco’s eyes twinkle, as if he can already tell how the story will end.
“Well, he went all in, just like he does in every game. But he underestimated the pies, thinking it was going to be a cakewalk—pardon the pun. As soon as they said 'go,' he dug in, but the pies were so slippery they kept sliding away from him. It was like they had a mind of their own!"
“I can picture it.” Marco says with a huge grin. “What happened next?”
“He finally got hold of one, but he’d lost track of time. When the whistle blew, he was still holding the pie, and he had whipped cream all over his face. The organizer said, ‘You have to eat the pies, not wear them!’”
Marco leans back in his chair. “I guess he didn’t know how to handle a sticky situation, huh?”
We burst into laughter, drawing the attention of nearby diners. Oops!
“Exactly! He might be a legend on the field, but when it comes to pie-eating contests, not so much.
We continue swapping stories as we indulge in tiramisu for dessert.
But despite the laughter and easy conversation, something's missing.
There's no spark, no fireworks. And all I can think about is Tristan, my next-door neighbor, with his kind heart and caring nature.
Despite the age difference, there's something about him that feels comforting, familiar.
For the nth time this evening, a part of me wishes I were on a date with him instead, sharing an intimate conversation over candlelight.