Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Sophie
I don’t see Peter until I emerge from my office to scrounge up some lunch.
He’s working from the kitchen table, laptop open in front of him, but he’s on a phone call, so I don’t do more than wave. He waves back, offering me a small smile, then points to his phone with his free hand, mouthing the word boss. He looks like he’s feeling better, at least. If he was even sick at all.
I’m beginning to wonder if Peter is avoiding my rooftop garden on purpose.
Archer is a lot of things. But he isn’t a very good liar. At least, he wasn’t this morning. But why would Peter be so determined to avoid the garden? His allergies aren’t that bad, and if he’s only in the garden long enough to drop off a shipping crate, that’s hardly long enough for them to act up.
It would be long enough for the flower to bloom.
Which would be a welcome relief.
I’ve met up with three additional men this week. I invited Gary to meet me in the garden for coffee. Then Hendrix came over at lunch time, and a man named Richard insisted our first meeting be at a restaurant. I agreed, mostly because the idea of dinner sounded nice. But I didn’t bother inviting him back to the garden because his ex-wife called in the middle of appetizers, a call he took before spending the rest of our time together telling me all the reasons why he hopes they can get back together.
It’s all been very exhausting. And it’s making me miss Peter. I miss our movie nights. I miss watching Ted Lasso . I miss feeling like we can talk about anything. And it hasn’t felt that way since this whole Operation Soulmate thing started.
I finish making my lunch, not truly paying attention to Peter’s conversation, but then he says, “I know, sir. I understand. I appreciate your patience. I’ll definitely make my decision by the beginning of next week.” His eyes flick up to me for the briefest second, then his cheeks turn a light shade of pink.
What decision is he making?
And why don’t I know about it?
Does this have to do with the promotion he mentioned?
I take an extra-long time putting all the sandwich fixings back into the fridge. But as soon as Peter ends his call, he makes another, this time talking about numbers and code and a whole bunch of things that make zero sense to me.
If I didn’t have my own deadline looming, I might linger a little longer, but I’d love to finish my current design before the end of the day, which means I only have a few hours left.
I take my sandwich back to my office, assuming we’ll have time to talk before I leave for my date. But when I finally email my design to my supervisor and call it quits for the day, Peter is gone.
I pull out my phone to send him a text, but there’s already one waiting for me.
Peter
At the grocery store. Text me if you need anything. I’ll be home before you get back to The Serendipity with your date. Text me if the plan changes.
I sigh, tapping my phone against my palm. My date tonight, Chad, is meeting me for dinner at Aria. I can’t explain why, but when I made the plans, I didn’t suggest he come to The Serendipity first. Something in his tone, I think. He came across as slightly entitled, like he already had expectations for how things would go.
I’ve been wrong frequently enough to know better than to trust my first impressions and instincts, so I still scheduled the date. But meeting at a restaurant instead of bringing him anywhere near my home felt like a safer bet. Aria was one of my favorite places to eat even before I discovered the head chef, Matteo, lives in my building, so I’m happy for the meal even if I’m less enthusiastic about the company.
And maybe Chad will surprise me?
Though honestly, I’m not sure I want him to.
The longer this week has dragged on, the more I’ve begun to sense that Willa was right. Maybe I am making things too complicated. My feelings for Peter have only intensified, and spending time away from him, especially when I’m with other men, is starting to feel silly.
As I move into the bathroom to do my hair and makeup, I bargain with myself. If Peter gets home before I’m finished with my face, I’ll stay home.
When that doesn’t work, I kick the deadline out a little. By the time my hair is done. By the time my shoes are on. By the time I’m walking out the door.
But all the deadlines come and go, and Peter still doesn’t show.
Is he buying the entire freaking grocery store? How many things did he need to buy?
My stomach grumbles as I put on one last coat of lip gloss, and I breathe out a sigh.
“Fine,” I say to my silent apartment. “I’ll go have dinner at Aria. But I won’t be happy about it.”
Chad is waiting at our table when I arrive at the restaurant. He stands and smiles as I approach, then moves around the table to give me a hug.
He smells strongly of cologne, and I fight a wince as he envelops me. It’s not a bad smell, but it’s definitely about ten times too strong.
“Great to meet you, Sophie,” Chad says. His grip tightens the slightest bit, and I shrink away, shrugging out from under his arms.
“Yeah, you too,” I say as I step to my side of the table.
“Have you ever eaten here before?” he asks as I sit and open the menu.
“Many times,” I say. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Wow. Lots of times, huh? You’ll have to tell me what’s good. I don’t frequently let myself indulge in Italian food.” He pats his chest, which is admittedly chiseled under his dress shirt. “Too many carbs.”
Oh, no. Is Chad one of those guys? The guys who count their macros and drink protein shakes all day? Don’t get me wrong. I love a man who stays in shape. I just don’t love it when it’s his entire personality.
“Everything is good,” I say. “Truly. The chicken marsala is probably my favorite, but all the pasta dishes are amazing.”
He frowns. “Yeah, I can’t eat pasta.” His brow furrows as he studies the menu, then pulls out his phone, pulling up the calculator app and setting it down on the table in front of him.
I watch as he glances back and forth, looking at menu items, then typing numbers into his calculator.
I glance at my own menu, trying to figure out what information he could possibly be calculating. A steak on the menu has the number of ounces listed in the description, but otherwise, I can’t imagine what he’s gleaning.
Finally, I can’t keep myself from asking, “Are you…adding something up?”
He looks up from his calculator app. “Hmm?”
I motion to his phone. “You just look busy over there.”
“Oh. Right. Just adding up grams of protein.”
“How can you do that when you don’t know portion sizes?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s an approximation. Most restaurants of this caliber have a standard. Four ounces of meat. 6 ounces of pasta or another starch like potatoes or rice. Lower quality places serve larger portions, of course. So I make my best guess and order accordingly. I’m happy to calculate for you as well, if you like.”
“No. That’s okay. I don’t really pay attention to stuff like that.” I lean closer, not particularly impressed with Chad’s calculating but also weirdly fascinated. “How do you know how much protein is in each menu item? Are you looking it up?”
“Oh, no.” He taps the side of his head. “It’s all up here.” He gives me a confident smile. “I’ve done this a lot.”
“You just know how much protein is in food? Like, all food ?”
“Not everything,” he concedes. “But most things.” He glances down at the menu. “Everything they serve here. Want to quiz me?”
“Broccoli,” I say, because I can tell by Chad’s expression, he really wants me to quiz him.
“Three point two grams in four ounces,” he says without hesitation.
“Pork,” I say.
“Depending on the cut, anywhere from twenty-three to thirty-one grams.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s impressive.” I close my menu and take a long sip of water. It is not, actually, impressive. At least not to me.
“You know,” Chad says, “there are a lot of reasons why women should be counting macros too. It isn’t just about building muscle.”
Thankfully, our waiter arrives and takes our drink order. A glass of white wine for me and water for Chad, unsurprising because, as he so generously informs me, alcohol is full of empty calories.
Things don’t get better as the meal continues. Halfway through our entrees, I’m itchy to escape. This date clearly isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t need my magic flower to prove it. If I hear one more thing about sugar content or ketosis or the glycemic index, I’m going to lose my mind.
I wonder what Chad’s going to think when I admit my favorite beverage is a crème br?lée latte, and I like it best when paired with one of Willa’s sugar cookies. I’m definitely going to tell him before the night is over. If only to make it as clear to him as it is to me that we are not, and never will be, a match.
“Would you excuse me for a second?” I say after taking my last bite of chicken marsala. I grab my purse and make a beeline for the bathroom. As soon as I’m locked in a stall, I pull out my phone and text Peter.
Sophie
HELP. My date won’t stop calculating his macros.
Peter
That sounds like very important work.
Sophie
I swear, he hasn’t asked me a single question all night long. We have, however, talked about the nutritional content of everything on his plate and discussed how my risk of cardiovascular disease is ten times higher than it would be if I consumed less sugar.
Peter
Sounds like a winner.
Sophie
Sigh. This date can’t be over fast enough.
Peter
Did you drive yourself there?
Sophie
Yes—well, I walked.
Peter
Then leave.
Sophie
But we just finished eating. We haven’t even had dessert.
Peter
You really think that guy is going to eat dessert?
Sophie
Ha. True. But I don’t want to be rude.
Peter
He’s been rude all night long. Cut your losses. Skip dessert and come home. I’ll make you something sweet.
Warmth spreads through my chest at Peter’s offer. I would much rather have dessert with him than dessert with Chad. Rather, dessert at Aria while Chad watches. And Peter is right. Chad is being rude. Not overtly. But he’s been talking about himself for over an hour.
I don’t have to stay for this.
I hurry back to the table, grabbing our waiter on my way. I hand him my credit card, letting him know I’ll pay for the entire meal, then make my way back to Chad. I don’t sit, instead sliding my chair all the way under the table and standing behind it.
Chad frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Actually, I just spoke with a friend, and I need to go.”
“Oh,” he says. “I hope everything is okay?”
“More than okay,” I say. “I just have somewhere else I need to be.”
The waiter returns and hands me my card and the receipt. I quickly add a tip and my signature, then smile at Chad one more time. “Thanks for the evening, Chad. Dinner was on me, but I don’t think we should see each other again.”
He leans back in his chair. “It was all the nutrition talk, wasn’t it?”
The question makes me grimace, but I won’t lie to the guy. “I’m sure you’ll eventually meet someone who shares your passion, but that person will never be me.”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah, well. You don’t really have the muscle definition I’m looking for anyway.”
And that’s my cue to leave.
Fortunately, Aria is only a block or so away from The Serendipity. As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, I feel an overwhelming urge to see Peter.
I don’t even care that he keeps avoiding the rooftop garden. That I still don’t know if he’ll make my flower bloom.
But I don’t want to fight this anymore. I just want to be with him.
I stop and loop my purse over my shoulder, then reach down and tug off my heels. Then I clutch them against my chest with one hand, lifting the hem of my dress with the other, and I run all the way home.