14. Serena
Serena
T he trick to a successful date is low expectations, but what I need is a lobotomy.
Or at minimum, duct tape for my inner critic, which is currently delivering a TED talk about everything that could go wrong.
I try on five different outfits, each rejected for crimes ranging from ‘trying too hard’ to ‘giving up completely,’ then stand in my towel, tapping highlighter onto my cheeks with the resolve of someone prepping for a hostage handoff.
Audrey and Layla have been blowing up the group chat, each message more urgent than the last.
Audrey:
If you don't send me a bathroom selfie before you leave, I'm calling the police.
Layla:
Are you wearing the hot AF heels or the 'I might need to run' flats?
Me:
The Louboutins. I'm not running.
Layla:
Proud of you.
Audrey:
Are you wearing underwear that requires an engineering degree to remove?
Me:
The shapewear could survive reentry from space.
Layla:
That's not sexy.
Audrey:
It is if he's into NASA.
Me:
I hate you both.
Layla:
Lies. You love us. Now stop texting and finish getting ready. You have twenty minutes.
Seventeen minutes, actually. I set my phone aside and stare at the cherry-red wrap dress hanging on my closet door, tags still on.
Three months ago, I bought it in a moment of optimism, thinking maybe I'd finally feel ready to wear something bright and attention-seeking.
Something that wasn't chosen specifically for its forgiving dark tones. Now or never.
I drop the towel and turn to the mirror, forcing myself to really look.
The stretch marks are silver now, not the angry red they used to be.
Progress, my therapist would say. They streak across my stomach like lightning, marking where my skin had to expand to hold someone I used to be.
Someone who weighed ninety pounds more. Someone who hid behind food the way I now hide behind structure and shapewear.
My upper arms have that soft, loose quality that no amount of weights can fix.
My stomach, despite five Pilates classes a week, still has skin that hangs, pooling when I bend over.
My thighs touch—they'll always touch—and there's loose skin there too, little pockets and dimples that no Instagram filter could hide.
But it's the body that survived. The body that got healthy.
The body that can run three miles and lift weights and dance until 4 AM.
It's the body that tells the story of who I used to be and who I fought to become.
And tonight, wrapped in cherry-red confidence and industrial-strength shapewear, it's the body that's finally showing up. The body I’m done apologizing for.
I reach for said shapewear—the kind that promises miracles and delivers breathing problems. It takes three minutes and a minor yoga certification to get it on, and by the end I'm slightly sweaty and reconsidering everything.
But when I look in the mirror, my silhouette is smoother. Not perfect, but manageable.
The cherry-red dress slides on like liquid courage.
The wrap style is a godsend—structured enough to be flattering, adjustable enough that I can control how much cleavage shows.
The sleeves hit just past my elbows, hiding the worst of my arms. The skirt falls just below my knees, swishy enough to be flirty, long enough to feel safe.
I look... good. Not Instagram good, not even close to the kind of women Caleb probably usually dates. But good enough that maybe, in candlelight, after wine, if I'm strategic about positioning, he might not notice that I'm held together by Spanx and sheer determination.
My phone buzzes.
Audrey:
Selfie. Now. Or I'm calling 911.
I snap a quick photo, angles and lighting working overtime.
Layla:
RED?! Holy shit, you look hot!
Audrey:
Caleb's going to swallow his tongue.
Me:
NASA would be proud.
Audrey:
Stop self-deprecating and get your ass to that restaurant.
The Uber driver tries to make small talk about the weather, but I'm too busy catastrophizing.
What if the shapewear rolls down mid-dinner?
What if I eat bread and suddenly look six months pregnant?
What if the restaurant has those horrible overhead lights that make everyone look like they're dying of consumption?
Georgio’s looms ahead, warm and inviting and terrifying. Through the window, I can see the table—our table. The one where he waited while I sat in my apartment, paralyzed by the fear of being seen. Really seen.
Not tonight, I tell myself. Tonight I show up. Tonight I take a chance.
I'm twelve minutes early, but that's on purpose. I want to be the one waiting this time.
"Reservation for Kingsley," I tell the host, whose eyes flicker with recognition.
"Mr. Kingsley isn't?—"
"I know. I'm early. I'll wait at the table."
He leads me to the window seat, and I order immediately. "A bottle of the Stag's Leap Cabernet."
As the waiter pours, I stare at the empty chair across from me. This is what Caleb saw that night. This exact view. An empty chair full of possibility slowly becoming an empty chair full of disappointment.
My phone vibrates.
Caleb:
Pulling up now. Please be there.
My heart cracks a little at the ‘please.’
Me:
Window table. Red dress. Already drinking our wine.
Caleb:
Red?
Me:
Seemed brave at the time. Now questioning everything.
Caleb:
Don't. I can see you through the window and... Christ, Serena.
I look up and there he is, standing on the sidewalk, frozen mid-step, staring at me through the glass like I'm something he conjured.
Navy suit, no tie, top button undone. His hair is slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and the raw hunger in his expression makes every cell in my body go molten.
I raise my wine glass in greeting. I'm here. I showed up.
He's through the door in seconds, moving with that predatory grace that made me notice him in the first place. The entire restaurant seems to pause as he crosses to me. When he reaches the table, he doesn't sit immediately, just stands there looking at me like I might disappear if he blinks.
"You're early," he says, voice rough.
"Figured I owed you that. Me actually showing up. Early, even."
He sits, eyes never leaving mine. "The red dress is..."
"Subtle? Understated? Exactly what you'd expect from someone being investigated for corporate espionage?"
"I was going to say incredible." His gaze travels over me slowly, appreciatively. "You look like you're ready to conquer something."
"Just dinner," I say, but my voice comes out breathy.
"Right. Dinner." He picks up his wine, and I notice his hand trembles slightly. "You ordered the Stag's Leap."
"You mentioned it once. In a text at some ungodly hour when we were discussing wine pairings. You said it was sophisticated without trying too hard."
Something shifts in his expression. "You filed that away."
"I remember everything." I take a sip for courage. "Every text. Every terrible joke. Every time you made me laugh when I was spiraling about work. How I desperately wanted to say yes to you way before I did."
"Serena—"
"I need to say this before I lose my nerve." My fingers grip the stem too tightly. "I've never dated someone who actually mattered to me before. Someone whose opinion I care about. Someone who makes me want to be better than I am."
The admission hangs between us, fragile as a soap bubble, and I feel laid bare.
I brace for him to laugh, to make a joke, to do anything to deflect the raw honesty I’ve just dropped on the table.
Instead, he just watches me, his eyes so dark they’re almost black.
The silence stretches, pulling tight, and I’m about to snatch the words back when he reaches across the table.
His hand covers mine, warm and steady, his thumb stroking over my knuckles in a slow, deliberate circle.
"And you," he says, his voice a low rasp that vibrates straight through me, "make me want to be the man who deserves it."
My brain short-circuits. All the witty comebacks I practiced in the Uber, all the carefully constructed defenses—they just evaporate under the weight of his gaze.
His thumb continues its hypnotic rhythm against my skin, a simple touch that feels like a brand.
A claim. A promise. I feel seen, straight through the red dress and the armor I wear beneath it, all the way to the terrified, hopeful girl I keep locked away.
The waiter approaches, oblivious to the treaty negotiation he’s just interrupted. “Are you ready to order?”
Caleb doesn’t even glance at him. “Give us a minute,” he says, dismissing the man without breaking our gaze. He turns my hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. The possessive grip sends a jolt straight to my core, and I stare at our joined hands.
"You know, my therapist has theories about my dating history. Turns out when you spend years thinking you're lucky if someone remembers your name, the bar gets pretty low."
His jaw tightens. "Serena."
"I'm not trying to trauma dump," I say quickly. "I just... watching Layla and Bennett, seeing what it looks like when someone actually chooses you, fights for you..." I take another sip. "It made me realize I'd been accepting crumbs and calling it a feast."
"And I'm not crumbs?"
"You're a five-course meal when I've been living on vending machine dinners." The metaphor makes him smile slightly. "You terrify me because you're real. Because if this goes wrong, I can't just shrug and pretend I never expected better."
His thumb strokes over my knuckles, and the simple touch sends heat straight through me. I press my thighs together under the table, grateful for the tablecloth.
"You want to know what terrifies me?" he asks quietly.
I nod.
"That you'll realize you can do better than a workaholic lawyer who's been borderline obsessed with you for six months. That you'll figure out I'm just as fucked up as everyone else, just with better suits and a higher credit score."
"Your suits are very nice," I manage.
“Tell that to Dominic.”
"Dominic has terrible taste in everything but friends," I say, and the joke feels like a safety raft in this sea of raw emotion. He squeezes my hand, his thumb tracing the line of my wrist where my pulse hammers.
"Serena." His voice drops. "I need you to hear something. Whatever assholes made you think you were disposable? They were idiots. And if you give me the chance, I'll spend however long it takes proving that to you."
The intensity makes my chest tight. "That's a big promise."
"I'm a lawyer. I don't make promises I can't keep."
I have to look away for a moment. "Did you…really wait here for two hours that night?"
"Two and a half." No hesitation. "The waiter kept looking at me with increasing pity. I consumed so much bread I couldn't button my jacket."
"I'm so sorry."
"I'm not. If you'd shown up that night, we might have had dinner, maybe fooled around, probably fucked it up because neither of us was ready."
"And now we're ready?"
"I don't know about ready. But I know I've spent six months comparing every woman to you. I know I scheduled a client meeting at the Palmer House bar last month just because Layla mentioned you had a marketing conference in the same hotel."
"You did?"
"Nursed one drink for three hours while my client talked about real estate and his theories about Amelia Earhart. Everything from alien abduction to witness protection. I kept staring at the door, hoping you’d walk by the entire time."
My heart nearly cracks open. "You sat there for three hours?"
"I did." His thumb traces circles on my palm.
"I was looking for you. I'm always looking for you.
Every day since the gala. Maybe even before—since that rooftop bar opening when you were with Layla and we made Audrey choke after I told you my prize possession is a first edition of Myra Bradwell's legal briefs.”
“The woman who fought the Supreme Court for a woman's right to practice law." I smile at the memory.
“I wouldn't have pegged you as a champion of women's rights, Counselor.”
“I'm not one for 'pegging,' Ms. Morgan,” he replied, holding my gaze a beat longer than necessary.
“That makes sense,” I fired back immediately. “Being a lawyer, you'd be more prone to fucking everyone else up the ass.”
“That’s the one.” He chuckles. “You really held your own that night. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Haven’t looked at another woman since.”
"That long?"
He shrugs. "If I'm being honest."
For a moment I'm so aware of everything—his hand on mine, the heat between us—that I forget every insecurity. All I can think is if I don't kiss him soon, I might combust.
"Do you always run full throttle at things?" I ask, voice barely steady.
"Yes. But only when they're worth it." His eyes darken. "Are you going to let me catch you this time, Serena?"
"Yes," I breathe. "But I need you to know something first."
His hand tightens. "Tell me."
"I'm not the kind of woman you usually?—"
"Stop." His voice is firm but gentle. "I know exactly who you are. You're the woman I sat through three hours of conspiracy theories hoping to see. You're the woman who's made every other woman invisible for months. You're the woman I've been chasing since before you even knew I was running."
"That's not what I meant?—"
"I don't care what you meant. I care that you're here. That you're finally going to stop running long enough for me to show you what you've been doing to me."
The waiter appears again, and we both stare at him like we've forgotten what restaurants are for.
"Should we..." I gesture vaguely at the menu.
"Are you actually hungry?"
"No."
"Thank God." He's already signaling for the check. "Because if I don't kiss you in the next five minutes, I might actually lose my mind."
The waiter looks confused but takes the wine bottle and the credit card Caleb slides across.
"We'll take it to go," Caleb says, never looking away from me.
"Sir, we don't usually?—"
"They do tonight." His voice brooks no argument.
The waiter nods and disappears. Caleb stands, extends his hand.
"Where are we going?" I ask, though I'm already reaching for him.
"Somewhere I can kiss you without giving the entire restaurant a show."
My whole body goes liquid. "That seems reasonable."
"Nothing about how I feel about you is reasonable," he says, pulling me to stand. "“It’s inevitable."