9. Asher
Chapter 9
Asher
I t was part of the plan.
Not exactly my proudest move.
I drum my fingers against the worn wooden table at The Old Mill, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension clinging to them like a too-tight hoodie. Just a simple date. No pressure. Be respectful. Follow Isla’s matchmaking plan. And, yeah, maybe, hope it stirs something in her.
A twinge of guilt creeps in as I check my watch. This isn’t exactly my finest hour. Dad would probably give me that quiet sigh he used when I tried to microwave a protein shake in middle school.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
The dinner crowd buzzes around me, but I’m pretty sure half of them are more interested in who I’m waiting for than their own meals.
Fred and Connie aren’t even trying to be subtle. Fred keeps making exaggerated binoculars with his hands, and Connie’s jabbing him in the ribs, fully committed to whatever spy fantasy they’ve cooked up. Betty’s practically fused to the front window like a gossip-sensing barnacle. By tomorrow, the entire town will have a full play-by-play with dramatic reenactments.
“Third time I’ve refilled your water,” Maeve announces, appearing at my side with a dish towel slung over one shoulder. “Which is impressive, considering I don’t even wait tables.”
“I’m just staying hydrated. You spying on me, Maeve?”
“Please. I’ve been spying on you since you were in diapers. You always did get shifty when you were hiding something.” She tops off my glass with a smug little flourish. “So. You on a date?”
“Thanks. Just meeting someone.”
Her eyes narrow, instantly alert. “So it is a date.”
I don’t confirm or deny.
Mistake.
Her whole face lights up. “Ooooh. Who is she? Are you and Isla finally going on a date? Is this the moment you two finally pull your heads out of your—”
The bell chimes, and we both turn toward the door.
A woman strides in, all coordinated athleisure and runway-level confidence, as if she’s auditioning for the cover of Peak Cardio Monthly. She pauses in the doorway, one hand on her hip, chin lifted, eyes sweeping the restaurant with slow, practiced precision. I’m almost convinced she’s expecting paparazzi or a protein sponsorship. If a wind machine kicked on right now, I wouldn’t even be surprised.
Must be Michelle, my date. According to the photo Isla showed me.
She’s pretty, polished, and put together. The kind of woman who probably organizes her leggings by designer labels, color, and moisture-wicking level. According to Isla, she’s someone who checks every box. Harvard grad. Marathoner. Fitness influencer with over 200k followers.
That’s what Isla thinks I want.
“Asher?” Michelle steps in, gearing up for a hug, then swerves at the last second and lands a weirdly intense pat on my shoulder.
“Oh my goodness, you’re even hotter in person!”
Maeve’s eyebrows lift so high they nearly vanish into her bangs. She mutters something that might be You’re on your own, kid, and retreats toward the kitchen without looking back.
“Those gym promos seriously undersold you. I mean, look at those shoulders!” She does a double take, blinking twice.
What kind of pictures of me has Isla been showing around?
Must be that photo from the gym’s promotional shoot last summer—the one where Connie made me flex with dumbbells shaped like watermelons. I resist the urge to hide my arms. Sure, I stay in shape, comes with the job, but I’m not exactly built like a tank.
“Nice to meet you, Michelle.” I pass a polite smile.
She slides into her seat and leans in, giving my arms the kind of look you usually reserve for auctioning prize cattle.
“Seriously, do you live at the gym or what? I bet you could bench-press a car. Or a small horse. Maybe even two if they’re Shetland ponies.”
Before I can answer, she reaches over and pokes my arm through the sleeve like she’s testing a melon at the farmer’s market. “Is that real muscle?”
I shift in my chair, trying not to flinch. Is this a thing now? First dates doubling as physical evaluations? “Well, I do work at a gym.”
Michelle’s laugh echoes through the restaurant. Several heads turn. “Right! Isla mentioned that. Speaking of working out . . .” She pushes aside her menu without even glancing at it. “What do you say we skip dinner and go for a jog instead?”
“I’m sorry?”
“A jog!” She taps out a caffeinated drum solo on the table. “It’s my ultimate compatibility test. I’ve got to see if you can keep up!”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say carefully, “but with the slick streets from yesterday’s rain . . . and the fact that we have a reservation.”
This is where normal humans usually eat food and have conversations. My stomach rumbles in protest, fully on board with Team Dinner.
Fred catches my eye across the room, giving me an exaggerated wink and thumbs up. Connie’s practically bouncing in her seat, no doubt already planning how to spread this gossip through their early-morning gym session tomorrow.
“Oh, come on! Don’t worry about the reservation. Don’t you want to see if we’re a fitness match? With a body like that, you’ve got to be itching to show off your cardio skills. Unless . . .” She leans forward, eyebrows raised challengingly, “You’re worried you can’t keep up with a girl?”
Her voice bounces off every wall in the place. More heads turn. Fred nearly chokes on his breadstick. Connie looks like she’s about to start a slow clap.
There’s no graceful way out of this.
“Sure,” I mustered a smile. “Why not?”
I mouth a quick sorry to the waiter and gesture toward the untouched menus. Michelle breezes right past him like he’s invisible, launching into a breathless rundown of her heart rate zones and how she color-codes her running routes in a planner she calls The Book of Sweat . She lets out a loud laugh at her own joke and nearly clips a chair on her way out without missing a beat.
I’d rather be sharing a burger with Isla, listening to her passionately defend her theory that couples who argue over dog names in the first week are statistically more likely to stay together.
At least Isla would’ve noticed the waiter. And asked if I even wanted to run in the first place.
We step out of the restaurant into the cool, damp spring air. Michelle bounces on her toes beside me, her enthusiasm completely at odds with the wet sidewalks and steady drizzle.
“Ready to burn some calories?” She grins, stretching her arms over her head.
I glance down at my dress shoes, then at the slick pavement. Great first-date footwear. Really built for traction and romance. “You sure about this? It’s not exactly treadmill weather out here.”
“Oh, please, it’s just a little spring drizzle. Come on, slowpoke!”
She takes off down the street. I sigh, resigned to my fate, and jog after her. Water splashes under my feet. The pavement gleams like it’s actively conspiring against my shins.
“So, tell me about your gym,” Michelle pants between strides. “How many members? Square footage? What’s your lead gen strategy?”
“It’s—”
“Never mind! Save your breath. I’d rather see how that body moves. Let’s go, Mr. Fitness!”
It might be the first time I’ve considered faking a cramp. Or pretending I suddenly remembered I left my oven on.
She surges ahead, narrowly avoiding an elderly couple walking their dog. We round the corner, passing Fresh n’ Fluffy. A whiff of warm cookies sneaking out from the slightly cracked window of Fresh n’ Fluffy.
Elaine steps just outside under the awning. “Didn’t know jogging was on the menu, Asher!”
“Just trying something new.”
Michelle grabs my arm, tugging me forward. “Less talking, more moving! Let’s go!”
Isla would’ve taken one look at the drizzle, slipped once on purpose, and called it a sign from the universe to go home and watch The Notebook for the eighty-ninth time.
And I would’ve gone without protest.
As we jog through the park, Michelle’s enthusiasm seems to grow with each step. Did Isla set this up as some kind of elaborate prank? Is her new system glitching, or did she really think this would work?
“Let’s take a shortcut!” Michelle chirps, veering off the path.
I open my mouth to warn her, but she’s already mid-leap.
“I’ve got this! Watch and—” Her triumphant cry turns into a yelp as she misjudges the jump. Instead of gracefully clearing the puddle, she lands in the mud with her arms pinwheeling like a malfunctioning windmill.
“Help!” she squeaks, flailing in the muck. “These are limited-edition leggings! This mud is going to stain!”
I step carefully into the puddle, grab her under the elbows, and haul her upright before she does a full trust fall into the bushes.
A chorus of laughter erupts from nearby. A group of kids has stopped to watch the show, grinning from ear to ear.
“She fell in the mud!” one kid yells.
“Her butt’s all brown!”
Mud and water cling to her designer leggings, making her look like she lost a fight with a rain puddle.
“That was just a warm-up!” Michelle snaps, brushing mud off her designer leggings with sharp, angry movements. Her face is red. The kids’ laughter seems to grate on her like nails on a chalkboard. “Stop staring!”
“Here,” I offer, but she’s already storming ahead.
If Isla had fallen like this, she’d probably be laughing, maybe even suggesting we take pictures of her graceful dismount for posterity. She’d probably make some joke about auditioning for a rain-soaked romantic comedy. Just picturing her, dripping wet and giggling, makes my heart ache in the best way.
I miss her already.
What’s she up to right now? Is she curled up with a book and an iced chai? Wrapped in a hoodie she swears isn’t mine?
Does she really not feel anything?
Is this easy for her, watching me go on dates with other women like it’s just business? Or is she just as wrecked as I am, pretending it’s all fine because we made a pact not to ruin the friendship?
A small whimper cuts through my thoughts. I stop mid-step, scanning the street. There, huddled against a trash bin, is a tiny ball of fur. My heart clenches.
“Did you hear that?” I ask, already moving towards the sound.
“Hear what? Come on, we’re losing our momentum!”
“Hey there, little guy,” I murmur, slowly reaching out. He inches forward on shaky legs, drawn by my body heat. Despite his sorry state, his floppy ears perk up slightly, and his tail gives the tiniest wag.
This tiny thing just melted me. Completely defenseless.
“Asher, what are you doing?” Michelle’s exasperated voice cuts through the moment. “It’s just some dirty stray. Probably diseased. And look at those teeth. It might bite! Let’s keep going!”
I turn to stare at her. “You can’t be serious. He’s scared, freezing, and alone.”
I scoop the shivering pup into my arms. He curls against my chest without hesitation, tucking his head under my chin like he’s decided I belong to him now.
I can already picture Isla’s reaction. She’d melt in seconds, already halfway through planning bath time and deciding between a plaid sweater or one of those ridiculous ones with tiny antlers on the hood.
“Ugh, it probably has fleas. Put it down!”
“He,” I correct firmly, “not it.” Nothing irritates me more than people treating animals like disposable things.
“If you’re not putting that mutt down, we’re done here. I can’t stand the smell.”
Well, there it is. Officially, the moment this date face-plants into the mud right alongside her.
“Sure.” I cradle the puppy closer. “I’m taking this little guy to get checked out. Thanks for the enlightening evening. But I don’t think we’ll work out.”
Michelle scoffs, flipping her wet ponytail over her shoulder. “Whatever. Enjoy your diseased rescue project.” She marches off, mumbling something about wasting her best leggings on some emotionally damaged dog guy.
The Yorkie-sized pup nuzzles deeper into my jacket. I glance down at his muddy little face, those big brown eyes now staring up at me. I can already picture the way Isla’s whole face will light up when she sees him.
Pretty sure I just found the perfect way to make one of my Peachie’s wishes come true.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” I murmur. “We’ll get you cleaned up and warm in no time. Though I have a feeling if Isla were here, she’d probably name you something cute on the spot.”