3. Millie
CHAPTER THREE
MILLIE
What the hell am I even doing?
I downloaded this app a few months ago because my best friend, Adeena, physically pried my phone out of my hands at dinner, set up a profile before I could stop her, and told me I needed to get out there.
She picked photos I didn't approve of. She wrote a bio I would never have written.
She handed my phone back and said, You're welcome.
Go find someone who deserves you. Adeena has the subtlety of a fire alarm, and I love her for it.
I went on one date. The guy was good-looking, I'll give him that.
Square jaw, nice watch, a confidence that looked great from across a restaurant and felt suffocating up close.
He talked about himself for two straight hours.
His ex. His job. His landlord dispute. His gym routine, in detail, including his macros, which I did not ask about.
He never once stopped to ask me a question.
And honestly, even if I wasn't mute, I don't think I could've gotten a word in.
He didn't pause long enough to breathe. At one point, I typed a response on my phone and held it up, and he glanced at it, said totally, and went right back to talking about his deadlift PR.
I left that date so mentally drained I deleted the app from my home screen.
Until three nights ago.
Seeing Vivienne's name next to First Chair did something to me.
I was happy for her. I was. She's my friend, and she's talented, and she earned her place in this orchestra the same way I did.
But I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting.
First Chair has been my dream since I was sixteen, sitting in the back row of a youth orchestra, watching the woman in that seat and thinking someday.
I thought someday had finally come. I was wrong.
So the best distraction I could think of at one in the morning was to reinstall that stupid app and start swiping. I didn't expect anything. I definitely didn't expect to match with someone like him.
His profile was ridiculous. Every single photo, he was smiling. Not posing, no gym photos, no photos with fish, girls, or kids. Like, seriously, why would you put a kid's face in a dating app?
He was just happy. Big, warm, unguarded—his joy carries through a screen.
In one photo he was in scrubs with a coffee cup, mid-laugh, looking at someone off camera.
In another he stood in front of the Sagrada Familia, lit up like a kid.
It took over his whole face, and I'd never seen anything brighter.
He's a doctor. An orthopedic surgeon. Plus, his bio made me laugh, which almost never happens with these things.
We matched. We talked. He was easy to text with, quick and light, and he made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt.
Then he asked me out. Saturday at seven p.m., I said sure. Because I'm completely fine and not at all panicking.
The next morning I texted him. I'd been composing the message in my head all night, rewriting it, trying to make it sound casual, like a woman who had not just spent nine hours rehearsing a single text message. I finally just typed it.
Millie
Hey, so I should probably tell you something before Saturday. I'm mute. Like, can't speak at all. I communicate by typing or signing. I just wanted to be upfront in case that changes things for you.
The three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. My stomach turned itself inside out.
Joseph
Nah, doesn't change anything. I talk enough for two people anyway. Honestly, you're probably going to wish I came with a mute button, too. See you Saturday
I read it four times. I smiled at my phone like an idiot for a full minute.
Now I'm standing in front of my mirror, and I look good.
I know I look good because there are three rejected outfits on my bed and this is the one that made me stop second-guessing.
A ruffled cream top with a bow at the collar, tucked into a long blue skirt that flows when I walk.
My hair is actually cooperating for once, which feels like a minor miracle on the same level as a solar eclipse.
People have always teased me about the way I dress.
Too girly. Too fussy. Bows and ruffles and soft fabrics, like I got lost on my way to a garden party.
And they're right—I do dress like a doll, and I won't argue, because I don't want to.
I like what I like: collars that tie, hems that move when I walk, colors like the inside of a peach.
I can't tell people who I am, so I show them.
Every ribbon is a sentence I get to wear out loud.
I look at myself one more time. Adjust the bow. Tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
This is just a date. One date. A distraction from the fact that I lost the thing I've been working toward for twelve years. That's all this is.
So why do I feel like I'm about to walk off a cliff?
I get to the restaurant early, because I'm always early. For me, being late when you can't call ahead to explain feels like showing up to a test without a pencil. I'm standing on the sidewalk scanning the street when I hear my name.
"Hey, you're Millie, right?"
I turn, nod, and even if I had a voice right now, I think I'd have nothing to say.
The photos don't do him justice. He's taller than I expected, broad-shouldered, hands in his pockets like he's got nowhere else to be and no reason to make himself smaller.
Dark hair, a little unruly. A jaw with a day's worth of stubble.
And that smile is even worse in person, because it doesn't just sit on his mouth—it takes over his whole face, crinkles his eyes at the corners, warms everything it points at. I'm in trouble.
"It's me, Joseph, or Jo for short." He holds out his hand. I shake it. His grip is warm and solid, and he holds on for exactly the right amount of time. "You look great, by the way. I almost don't recognize you without the violin."
I pull out my phone. Type fast. You look taller than your photos. Did you lie about your height?
He reads it and laughs. Full, surprised, head tipped back, completely gone. It's the first time I've heard his laugh and it sounds exactly like his smile looks, if that makes any sense. "I would never. Five eleven is five eleven. I just have good posture."
We go inside. The restaurant is small, warm-lit, candles flickering on every table.
We sit across from each other, and I brace myself for the thing that always happens next.
The shift. The moment when the reality of my silence settles over the table and the other person has to decide what to do with it.
Joseph picks up his menu. "Okay. I'm going to be honest. I already looked at this menu online, and I know exactly what I'm getting, but I'm going to pretend to browse so I don't seem weird."
I smile. I hold up my phone. I do the same thing.
"See? We're already compatible."
The waiter comes. Joseph orders. Then he looks at me, and I'm ready for it, ready for him to order for me or point at my menu or do any of the things people do for me.
Instead, he just waits. I point to the item on the menu and hold up one finger, and the waiter nods and writes it down, and that's it.
Joseph doesn't comment on it. Doesn't make a face. Just picks up where we left off.
"So you play violin. That's amazing. When did you start playing?"
I hold up five fingers.
"Wow, that's commitment. I can't commit to a sandwich order. I change my mind at the counter every time, and the guy at the deli near the hospital just starts making me whatever he feels like because he gets tired of waiting."
I type. That's not indecisive. That's outsourcing.
He reads it and grins. "I'm going to use that. I'm going to tell him that next time. 'I'm not indecisive, I'm outsourcing.' He's going to hate me."
The food arrives. We eat. He talks. I type. And somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, something shifts.
He tells me about growing up in Boston. How his mom takes him to the harbor on weekends and buys him soft pretzels from the stand near the pier. How he still goes there after long shifts because the salt air resets something in his brain. The way he mentions his mom, there's a tenderness there.
He tells me his sister plays violin too, and piano, and guitar, and somehow also the flute. "Mei Mei gets all the musical talent. I get the miserable recorder story." He says it lightly, but there's pride underneath when he talks about her.
But he doesn't just talk about himself. He asks me things too.
What I do on days off. Whether I like Boston or if I ended up here by accident.
What my favorite restaurant in the city is.
At one point he asks what I do for work, and I hesitate.
I don't want to think about orchestras tonight.
I don't want to think about what happened.
So I type I'm in the music industry and leave it at that. He nods. He doesn't push. He just moves on, like vague is fine, like I'll tell him when I'm ready, and the fact that he doesn't press makes me want to tell him more, not less.
He asks questions like he actually wants the answers, not like he's running through a checklist of first date topics. And when I type my replies, he reads every word. He doesn't skim. He doesn't glance and nod. He reads, and then he responds.
It throws me off. I'm not used to someone paying that much attention.
"Okay, I have a serious question for you," he says, clasping his hands together. "If you could do any career besides the one you have now, what would it be?"
I think about it for a moment. Then I type a crime scene investigator, and he nearly chokes on his water.
"I'm sorry. You. In the ruffled blouse. At a crime scene."
I'm very observant, and I watch a lot of true crime. I'd be great at it.
"I believe you. I fully believe you solve the case and look adorable doing it."