Chapter 8 First Date
Sophia sent her mother and Victoria the park location, a picture of her shoes, and, because Victoria had specifically asked, proof that her phone was fully charged.
Then she stared at the phone and decided not to send a pepper-spray picture, probably.
Maybe. No. She was going on a picnic, not entering witness protection.
Constance stood in the kitchen doorway with a mug of coffee and the face of a woman trying very hard not to ask seventeen questions at once.
Sophia zipped her small crossbody bag. “Say it.”
Constance blinked. “Say what?”
“Whatever you are holding in.”
“I am holding in many things.”
“I know.”
“I am showing restraint.”
“No, you are building pressure.”
Constance smiled and looked her over. “You look pretty.”
Sophia touched the edge of her cream sweater. “Pretty enough?”
“For a picnic? Yes.”
“For a date?”
“Yes.”
“For a date with a guy who has probably dated women who know what they are doing?”
Constance’s expression changed. Sophia regretted the question immediately.
“Sorry,” she said. “That felt—”
“Honest,” Constance said.
Sophia looked down at her shoes.
Constance set her coffee on the counter and came closer. “Sophia.”
“I know. Don’t compare myself to made-up women.”
“I was going to say that, yes.”
“You said it yesterday.”
“And you clearly need a repeat.”
Sophia sighed.
Constance reached out and fixed a curl near Sophia’s cheek. “He asked you. Not those women. You.”
Sophia swallowed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to.”
“That is enough for today.”
Sophia looked toward the front door. Her stomach had been doing strange, tight little flips all morning.
Through church, through lunch, through one final read of her paper before submitting it.
Through Victoria texting, Don’t let him choose a murderer tree, and Gia somehow getting her number and sending only a lemon emoji with no explanation.
Now it was time to leave, and all Sophia wanted was another hour, or to already be there, or to cancel.
No. She didn’t want to cancel. That scared her most.
Constance kissed her forehead. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will.”
“And when you leave.”
“I will.”
“And if anything feels wrong—”
“I leave.”
“Steady.”
Sophia opened the door.
Constance said, “Sophia?”
She turned back.
Her mother’s face softened. “Have fun.”
Sophia breathed in. That wasn’t a warning. It was permission.
“I’ll try.”
The park wasn’t huge, but it was open, bright, and busy enough that Sophia’s shoulders loosened the second she saw it.
Families sat on blankets. A group of college students threw a Frisbee badly.
Two older men argued over chess at a stone table.
A little girl in pink sneakers chased bubbles while her father apologized to everyone the bubbles touched.
The open path, families, and street beyond the fence helped Sophia breathe.
Vinny had chosen well. He stood near a patch of grass under a tree that wasn’t secluded or too romantic.
The main walking path ran nearby. A bench sat a few yards away.
The street was visible beyond the iron fence.
He had spread out a dark blue blanket and set a picnic basket near one corner.
He was wearing jeans and a dark green Henley pushed up at the forearms. Sophia had to stop herself from staring.
She was used to Vinny in black kitchen shirts, flour on his arms, moving fast under hot lights.
This version of him looked softer. Still big, still Vinny.
But outside the kitchen, with sunlight on his hair and a nervous look on his face, he seemed less like trouble and more like a person waiting to see if she would turn around and leave.
He saw her and stood. Not too fast. He smiled, not too big, which helped.
Sophia crossed the grass toward him and reminded herself to breathe normally.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
They stood there, two people saying one word each because apparently the rest was too complicated. Not exactly a smooth start.
Vinny rubbed the back of his neck. “You found it all right?”
“Yes. I sent the location to my mother and Victoria.”
“Good.”
“And my phone is charged.”
“Also decent.”
“And I know where the street is.”
He looked toward the street, then back at her. “I picked this spot because of that.”
“I noticed.”
His face shifted like that counted to him.
“It’s not too exposed?” he asked. “I didn’t know if being by the path was better or worse.”
“It’s better.”
“All right.”
Sophia looked down at the blanket. “This is nice.”
“It’s clean.”
She smiled. “I assumed.”
“My sisters made me say that if it came up.”
“You told your sisters?”
He winced. “They found out.”
“How?”
“I apparently talk in my sleep.”
Sophia’s eyes widened. “About me?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Maybe.”
Her face warmed so fast she had to look at the blanket again.
Vinny muttered, “I should have lied.”
“No,” she said, then surprised herself by adding, “That was… kind of nice.”
His smile came back slowly.
“Yeah?”
“Embarrassing,” she said. “But nice.”
“I can work with that.”
They sat on the blanket with enough space between them that Sophia could breathe and still know he was there. Vinny opened the basket.
“I didn’t bring twelve containers,” he said.
“That sounds like something a person says when he wanted to bring twelve containers.”
“I was talked down.”
“By Antonia?”
“And Gia. And my mother. And my sisters. It was a group failure to trust me.”
Sophia smiled. “That many people cared about the picnic?”
He looked up at her. For a second, his usual joke didn’t come.
“Yeah,” he said. “They did.”
Something warm moved through Sophia’s chest. He pulled out wrapped sandwiches, a little container of pasta salad, strawberries, two bottles of water, lemon cookies, napkins, more napkins, and then even more napkins tucked into the side of the basket. Sophia looked at the napkins.
Vinny followed her gaze. “Everyone yelled at me about napkins.”
"Everyone?”
“Everyone. Mostly Anna.”
“Your sister?”
“Thirteen, ruthless, and very serious about napkins.”
Sophia laughed. Vinny smiled like the laugh had solved something.
He handed her a sandwich wrapped neatly in parchment. “Chicken cutlet. Pesto. Roasted peppers. Mozzarella. Not too much filling because Antonia said if it fell apart on you, you’d get embarrassed.”
Sophia paused. He noticed.
“Was that wrong?” he asked.
“No.”
“All right.”
“It’s just…” She looked at the sandwich. “She was right.”
“I know. That’s annoying about her.”
Sophia unwrapped the sandwich slowly. It held together. Vinny looked relieved. She took a bite. The chicken was still crisp at the edges, the pesto bright, the peppers sweet. The bread was soft but not soggy. It tasted like something he had thought about without making it complicated.
“It’s good,” she said.
His shoulders lowered a little. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Not too messy?”
“No.”
“Better.”
“You were worried about sandwich structure.”
“I was told it mattered.”
“It does.”
“Then I respect the sandwich rules.”
She smiled into another bite. For a few minutes, they ate without trying too hard to fill the silence.
The park did some of the work for them. Kids laughing, wind moving through leaves, a dog barking near the path, and someone’s bike bell ringing as they passed.
Sophia started to relax. A little. She was still on a date.
With Vinny. But sitting on a blanket in daylight, eating a sandwich that didn’t fall apart, felt less terrifying than she had imagined.
Vinny opened the pasta salad. “Small serving. No red sauce and no stain risk.”
Sophia looked at him. “Victoria?”
“Victoria through Gia. So, yes.”
“That sounds right.”
“She scares me.”
“She should.”
“She’s very tall.”
“She is.”
“And she looks at me like she knows exactly how to ruin my life.”
Sophia considered him. “She probably does.”
“Comforting.”
“She means well.”
“I know.” Vinny handed her a fork. “She loves you.”
Sophia looked down at the pasta salad. “She does.”
“Loudly.”
“That is Victoria’s main setting.”
He smiled. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back on one hand. “My sisters are loud with each other. My mom is loud with us. I’m loud with everybody. In my house, love usually sounds like arguing over paper towels.”
Sophia laughed. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is. Also normal.”
“Your mom is a nurse?”
“Yeah. She works hard. Too hard, but try telling her that.”
“I know someone like that.”
“Constance?”
Sophia looked up. “I told you her name?”
“You did. Or Gia did. Or Victoria yelled it at me in a warning. I’m not sure.”
“She probably did.”
“She still calls me refrigerator boy?”
Sophia froze. “She—”
“You told me.”
“Oh.”
He grinned. “I’m choosing to accept it as a title.”
“That is generous.”
“I have to. If I fight your mother before I meet her, I lose.”
Sophia’s stomach fluttered. Before I meet her. He said it casually, like meeting her mother was something that might happen later. Not today or soon. Just possible. She took another bite of pasta salad because chewing was safer than reacting.
Vinny seemed to realize what he had said and picked up his water. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was too much.”
Sophia looked at him. He checked, corrected, and waited now, and she liked it.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“All right.”
They ate strawberries next. Vinny had dried them slowly so they weren’t dripping.
Sophia noticed. She noticed. She was starting to understand that Vinny’s effort lived in small practical things.
She saw it in the napkins, the sandwich structure, the public path, the dry strawberries, and the fact that he didn’t ask her to manage food or attention while she was already managing nerves.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
Sophia blinked. “Doing what?”
“Thinking hard.”
“I think normally.”
“No, you think like you’re grading the world.”