Chapter 9
The following Saturday morning, I wake up with what feels like a flock of geese in my belly.
And it feels like they’re fighting with each other.
Today, I’m going on my first date in twenty-five years.
With Roger.
His name is Roger.
Before he left last weekend, Miles told me to think of Roger as “practice,” which felt very strange. And maybe a little wrong.
But then he explained.
“You’re not going to get everything right the first time,” he’d said. “Give yourself some grace to feel things out.”
I’m not sure I want to feel things out with Roger.
Miles, in all his vast wisdom, told me that the more practice I get, the easier this whole “going out with strangers on the
internet” thing will become.
I don’t have high hopes.
When I started dating—approximately a million years ago—it was different. You’d see a guy in class, maybe, or at a frat party
or on campus. You’d make eye contact. Talk. Exchange numbers. Go to dinner. Study together. Make out in the library. Get engaged.
Get married. Get pregnant. (Not in that order for some of us . . .)
Blink and twenty years later find out he’s in love with someone else.
Huh. Maybe Miles is onto something, never wanting to do any of this again.
Suddenly, I don’t want to do any of it either.
I pick up my phone to text Miles that I’m backing out when a knock on my door interrupts my train of thought.
I open it, phone in hand, and find him standing there.
“You’re thinking about backing out, aren’t you?”
I frown and look at my phone. “How did you know that?”
“I’m a little bit psychic,” he says. “Or . . . you’re a little bit predictable.”
I groan, roll my eyes, and walk back inside. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I have no interest in meeting Roger or anyone
else.”
He holds up his hands, making a T shape. Time-out.
I fold my arms like I’ve been put on the naughty mat.
“Let’s go get coffee,” he says.
“I just made coffee,” I grumble.
“Oh, come on. The fresh air will do you good,” he says. “My treat.”
I only stare.
One of his eyebrows rises so slightly I almost miss it.
I huff out a long grunty breath like a toddler who does not want to obey. “Fine.” I pull on my shoes, grab my jacket, and step outside.
I start to walk toward the front gate when Miles puts a hand on my arm. “Just wait a second.”
I go still. “What am I waiting for?”
“Peace.”
I glare at him. “If you tell me to take a deep, cleansing breath, I’m going back inside.”
“No,” he says. “Nothing so hooty.”
I stifle a laugh. “Hooty?”
“Quiet. Don’t interrupt.”
I clamp it down.
“Just . . . wait. Don’t start your day in a panic. You’re overthinking this. Right now, just take a second. Enjoy the sunshine
and the warmth. We just survived a brutal winter, and look at us—we’re still here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Winter in Colorado was really mild this year.”
Now he rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I inhale an exaggerated breath, then huff it out dramatically. “Fine.”
“There you go,” he says in a slow, condescending tone.
I shoot him a look and take another breath.
Well, dang it.
It’s working. The sun feels good. The air is crisp. The world settles.
Pfft. Whatever.
I start walking. “Can you at least tell me what the date is?” I ask, because he and Minnie conspired about that too. Who knows
what they’ve said to Roger. “Also, does Roger know I haven’t been the one messaging him?”
“You didn’t read the chat?”
“I try not to open the app.” I shrug over at him.
“But . . . how will . . . you didn’t even . . .” He starts and stops three times. Then, clapping his hands and rubbing them
together, he says, “You know what? It’s great. It’ll all work out. And be fun. Promise.”
We reach the end of the block, and I notice how busy it is. Just like the first time I left my apartment to try to eat somewhere
by myself—there are couples pushing strollers, people walking dogs, a man jogging, a woman biking, and groups of friends doing
the kinds of things people do in the city on a Saturday morning. Shopping. Eating. Drinking coffee.
I glance over at Miles and find him watching me. “What?”
“Nothing, you just seem really engrossed in, you know”—he waves a hand out in front of him—“everything.”
The light changes and I step out into the street. “Sometimes I just have to take it all in. I still can’t really believe I
live here.”
“It’s brave what you did,” he says.
“Brave. Ha. It was self-preservation,” I say, not wanting to get into all the reasons I didn’t feel like I could show my face back in Colorado.
“It was still brave,” he offers. “Don’t downplay that.”
I try to absorb the words, but it’s hard to accept compliments. I shrug. “I didn’t feel like I had a choice.”
“I get that. If my ex hadn’t moved to Arizona after our divorce, I would’ve been tempted to leave the city,” he says. “Or
the country.”
I smile.
“Work would’ve made it hard, though.”
I know from our past conversations that Miles is a landscape architect who owns his own firm. “Your business ties you here.”
“Good thing I love this place,” he says.
He slows as we reach a cute coffee shop on the corner of the next block. He opens the door for me, and I step inside. I look
around at the space—sleek and modern, exactly like you’d expect a coffee shop in the city to look.
“Have you tried this place before?” I ask.
He nods as we get in line. “The coffee is amazing, but their pastries don’t hold a candle to those pecan things you made the
other night.”
My cheeks flush at the comment, even though they absolutely shouldn’t. He’s complimenting my pecan bars, for Pete’s sake.
“Oh, please.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “You have yet to bake something that I don’t love.”
I ignore him as I step forward and order an oat milk latte. Miles orders a black coffee and pays for both of our drinks. We
move to the end of the counter, and there’s a beat of silence as my gaze lands on a young couple in the corner. “What do you
think? First love?”
He follows my gaze and squints, clearly deep in thought. “Maybe. Or maybe . . . he’s in the military. Leaving tomorrow to
serve overseas.”
“They’ve spent one bliss-filled week ignoring the world and falling in love . . .”
“And she’s going to ghost him in three months when she meets someone else at a club.”
I frown. “Whoa. That took a dark turn. She would at least let him down easy.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, she’d ghost him.”
“Maybe he isn’t actually in the military at all,” I counter. “Maybe he says he is to get girls to fall for him, spends a few
nights with them, promises he’ll stay in touch, then never talks to them again. He’s used a fake identity so she can’t track
him down, and he’s already moved on to his next victim.”
Miles looks at me, eyes wide. “Now who’s the dark one?”
Our drinks appear on the counter, and I grab them both, handing Miles his cup of coffee and turning to walk back outside.
He starts off in the opposite direction of our apartments, but I don’t ask why. I get the sense that we’re out for a morning
stroll and that maybe he’s going to share a little information about my date. But minutes go by, and Miles hasn’t said a word,
seemingly content to soak up the sunshine and the scenes of the city where we both live.
Up ahead, I can see Lake Michigan, and a few minutes later we’re walking toward the water.
“Have you been down here yet?” he asks. “By the lake?”
I shake my head, drinking in the view. I understand why they call Chicago the “Third Coast.” If I didn’t know I was looking
at a lake, I could easily confuse this with the ocean.
The skyline stretches all the way up the shoreline as traffic weaves through the city streets, creating an energetic backdrop
of noise. Miles leads the way over to a wide sidewalk that’s situated next to the lake, and I see a giant shoal of huge boulders
stretching out into the water like a dock or a natural sidewalk. There are two boys way out on the end, one looking like he’s
trying to pose Karate Kid–style while the other takes his picture.
“I want to walk out there,” I say absently.
“On the groyne?”
I stop. “The what?”
He laughs through a wince. “In landscaping, you learn a lot of weird names for things. It’s called a groyne—it breaks waves
and blocks sediment, extends the life of the beach actually.”
I pretend to push up fake glasses on my nose, then hold up one finger. “Um, actually, it’s called a groyne . . .”
“You know what they say about nerds,” he says. “We’ll rule the world.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say that.” I toss him a smile.
Am I flirting? What am I doing?
“So? You want to?” He nods toward the groyne.
I look out at the rocks. “Let’s do it.”
We walk out over the sand, and when we reach the boulders, Miles steps up first, then reaches a hand out to help me up. I
accept his help, aware of how his strong hand wraps around mine, his other on my arm just above the elbow, steadying me as
I take a step.
I take a second to get my footing, and when Miles doesn’t let go of my hand right away, my skin prickles.
I take a step onto another large flat boulder, and he holds up his other hand as if to say, You got it? then lets go of me.
He steps, one stone at a time, alongside me as I slowly start out on the misshapen, unsteady boulders, heading a bit farther
toward the lake. I smile as an older couple holding hands passes by, headed back to the shore.
“See?” I say, a bit of bite in my voice. “They made it. What’s their secret?”
Miles tosses me a look, but his tone is light. “You have no idea what their story is. They could’ve met yesterday.”
“True.” I shrug. “I guess I just wish my story were different.”
“I don’t,” he says without hesitation.
“What? Why?”
He looks at me, right in the eyes. “Because if your story were different, you and I wouldn’t be on these rocks.”
My breath hitches, but I—hopefully—catch myself before giving away that my stomach just did a cartwheel.
“And who knows?” He laughs. “Maybe you’ll get lucky, and Roger will turn out to be the real thing.”
I frown. “You told me I didn’t want the real thing my first time out.”
He bends over and picks up a large oblong stone, then tosses it out into the water with a big kerplunk.
“Let’s just hope your date doesn’t go like that,” he quips.
I laugh and absently think that if my date with Roger goes anything like this impromptu walk, I won’t be sad.