Chapter 8 Maya
Maya
Shane Briggs wanted to take me out to dinner.
A real dinner. Not on my couch.
I was still trying to figure out what to do with that.
The call had come on a Wednesday night. I was already in bed, phone pressed to my ear, listening to Shane describe a probie who’d somehow gotten his head stuck in a stairwell railing during a drill.
"So Torres is standing there with a tub of butter," Shane said, "and the kid is bright red, and Captain Rodriguez is just watching with this expression like he's questioning every life choice that led him to this moment."
I laughed into my pillow. "Did the butter work?"
"Eventually. After about fifteen minutes and a lot of creative angles." His voice was warm, easy. The way it always got during these late-night calls that had become our routine. "Kid's never going to live it down. Brian's already planning the nickname."
"Poor thing."
"He'll survive. It builds character." A pause. The comfortable kind—the kind where neither of us felt the need to fill the silence.
I glanced at the clock. 11:47 PM. We’d been talking for nearly an hour.
"I should let you sleep," Shane said.
"Probably." I didn't move to hang up.
"Maya." His voice shifted. There was something underneath it, hesitation I wasn't used to hearing from him.
"Yeah?"
"I want to take you to dinner." The words came out quieter than before, like the darkness had made him braver. "A real dinner. Not on your couch."
My heart stumbled.
"It doesn't have to be a date," he added quickly. "I just... When was the last time you got dressed up and went somewhere nice? Somewhere that wasn't your apartment, or the school, or the grocery store? When's the last time you did something just for you?"
I stared at the ceiling and tried to think of an answer.
He exhaled. "One dinner. Millie can watch Zoe. You can wear jeans, I don't care. It's just... time. For you. That's all I'm asking."
That's all I'm asking.
He wasn't asking for anything. He was offering.
"Shane..." I pulled the blanket tighter around me. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because." I struggled to find the words. "We said friends. And dinner out feels like..."
"Like what?"
"Like more."
The line went quiet. I could hear him breathing, steady and patient, waiting for me, the way he always did.
"It can be whatever you want it to be," he said finally.
"Friends have dinner. Friends go to restaurants.
I'm not trying to push you into anything, Maya.
I just want to spend time with you somewhere that isn't your apartment.
Somewhere you can relax and not worry about dishes or grading or being a mom for a few hours.
" Another pause. "You deserve that. Even if you don't believe it. "
My chest ached.
"One dinner," I said. "That's it."
"That's it." I could hear the smile in his voice. "I’m off this Friday. I'll pick you up at seven?"
"Okay. Friday at seven."
"It's not a date," he said. "Unless you want it to be."
"Goodnight, Shane."
He laughed, low and soft. "Goodnight, Maya."
I hung up. I lay there in the dark, phone warm against my chest, my heart beating too fast for midnight.
What had I just agreed to?
Millie arrived at six-thirty, practically buzzing with excitement.
"This is so romantic," she said, dropping her backpack on the couch. "He's taking you on a real date."
"It's not a date."
"Maya." She gave me a look that was far too knowing for a sixteen-year-old. "He's picking you up. He made reservations. You're wearing a dress."
I looked down at myself. The dress was navy blue, simple, the nicest thing I owned.
I'd bought it three years ago for a parent-teacher conference and worn it exactly twice. I’d spent forty-five minutes deciding whether to wear it tonight, telling myself it didn’t matter—this wasn’t a date, I was just going to dinner with a friend.
I'd worn it anyway.
"It's just dinner," I said weakly.
Millie smiled. "Sure it is."
Zoe emerged from her room, took one look at me, and immediately rolled her eyes. "You look nice, Mom. Stop freaking out."
"I'm not freaking out."
"You changed your earrings three times. I could hear you from my room."
I had changed my earrings three times. The first pair was too fancy. The second pair was too casual. The third pair was the same as the first, which I'd put back on because apparently I'd lost the ability to make simple decisions.
The knock at the door made my stomach flip.
"I'll get it," Zoe said, already moving. She pulled open the door and looked Shane up and down with the critical assessment only a thirteen-year-old could manage. "You clean up okay."
"Thanks." Shane's voice was dry. "I tried."
"Don't keep her out too late. She gets cranky when she's tired."
"Zoe," I said, mortified.
"What? It's true."
Shane was grinning when I reached the door. His eyes moved over me, slow and deliberate, and something in his expression shifted—softened.
"You look beautiful," he said. Simple. Direct. Like it was just a fact.
My face went hot. He looked... God, he looked incredible.
The button-down fit him perfectly, hinting at the shoulders beneath it, the chest I’d felt pressed against me when he’d steadied me in my kitchen.
His jaw was freshly shaved, and I caught the scent of something clean and woodsy that made me want to step closer and breathe him in.
"Thank you. You look... nice."
Nice. He looked like he'd walked out of a magazine, and the best I could manage was nice.
Shane didn't seem to mind. He offered me his arm. "Ready?"
I took it. His forearm was warm and solid under my fingers.
“Have fun,” Millie called after us. "Take your time. We'll be fine."
"Back by eleven," Zoe added. "And I want details."
They were both grinning at us. That mischievous, knowing grin that made me want to melt into the floor. I shot them a look. Stop it. Millie bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Zoe didn't even try to hide it.
"Okay, bye," I said, pulling Shane toward the elevator.
"Bye, Shane," they called in unison, voices dripping with implication.
The door clicked shut behind us. I could hear them giggling through the wood.
I glanced up at Shane. He was smiling, that easy, devastating smile that did things to my pulse.
I wasn't sure I was going to survive the night.
He took me to a small Italian place a few blocks from my apartment.
It wasn't fancy. Red-checkered tablecloths, candles melted into old wine bottles, the smell of garlic and tomatoes thick in the air. The kind of place you’d walk past a dozen times without noticing, unless you knew to look for it.
The moment we stepped inside, an older woman emerged from behind the counter. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with silver hair pinned back and flour dusting her apron like it belonged there. Her face lit up when she saw Shane.
"Piccolo!" She grabbed his face with both hands and kissed his cheeks, once, twice, three times. "Too long. Too long since you come see me."
"I know, Rosa. I'm sorry."
"You work too hard. You don't eat enough." She pinched his cheek like he was ten years old. "Skin and bones."
Shane laughed. He was anything but skin and bones, but he didn't argue. "Rosa, this is Maya."
Rosa turned to me. Her eyes were sharp and assessing, but warm underneath. She took my hands in hers.
"Maya." She said my name like she was tasting it. "Beautiful name. Beautiful girl." She looked at Shane, then back at me. “He never brings anyone here," she added, almost accusing.
"Rosa—"
"Never," she repeated, ignoring him. “Almost thirty years I have known this boy, and never once he brought a woman to my restaurant.”
My face was burning. Shane looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
"The usual table," Rosa announced, already leading us toward the back. "And I bring you the good wine. The one I save for very special occasions.”
She deposited us at a corner booth, handed us menus we clearly wouldn't need, and disappeared into the kitchen muttering in Italian.
"Sorry about that," Shane said. His ears were red. "She's... enthusiastic."
"She's wonderful." I was still smiling. "Piccolo?"
"It means 'little one.' She's been calling me that since I was a kid." He shrugged, embarrassed. "I used to be shorter."
His voice softened. "My dad brought my mom here on their first date. They brought me here for every birthday growing up. It was our place,” he said softly.
I watched his face as he talked. The way his eyes went distant as he was remembering.
"After my dad passed, my mom couldn't come back.
Too many memories, she said. It hurt too much.
" He traced a finger along the checkered tablecloth.
"But I still come. Rosa always saves me the same booth.
It's where... It's where love looked right to me.
My parents at this table, holding hands over dessert.
Still crazy about each other after forty years. "
My throat tightened.
"I've never brought anyone here before," he said. Quiet. Almost offhand, except nothing about it was offhand.
"Never?"
"Never." He met my eyes. "It felt wrong. Bringing someone here who wasn't..." He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't know. It just never felt right."
I didn't know what to say. This man—who could have anyone, who had women throwing themselves at him constantly—had brought me here. The place where love looked right. The place he'd never shared with anyone.
Rosa reappeared with wine and bread and olive oil before I could say anything, and the moment passed. But I felt its weight settle into my chest, warm and terrifying.
We were halfway through our entrees when she appeared.
Mid-twenties. Blonde. The kind of confident that came from never having her beauty questioned.
"Shane Briggs."She put her hand on his shoulder, fingers trailing over the fabric of his shirt. "I thought that was you. We met at the firefighter benefit last spring? I'm Brittany."
Shane's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I remember."