Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Iwoke up at nine on Saturday morning and immediately wanted to throw up.
The date waited for me tonight.
We’d agreed to meet at the restaurant at seven-thirty. Ellis had texted me the address yesterday, some Italian place in Park Slope that supposedly had the best pasta in Brooklyn and a wine list longer than my arm.
I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and stared at our text thread like it might contain hidden answers about how not to completely screw this up.
Ellis: See you tonight. Can’t wait.
Three words. Twelve letters. They flipped something inside my stomach.
I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders. Today pressed heavier. Bigger.
No pressure.
By noon, I’d reorganized my closet twice, cleaned my entire apartment, and started a load of laundry I didn’t actually need to do. Anything to keep my hands busy.
At three, I gave up on distractions and started getting ready.
The first outfit, black jeans and a burgundy button-down, looked too much like what I’d worn to the coffee shop. I stripped it off, tossed it on the bed.
Second attempt: dark gray slacks and a white shirt. Too formal. Too, “I’m trying to sell you insurance.”
Third: jeans and a navy henley. Too casual. Like I wasn’t taking this seriously.
Fourth: all black everything. Too funeral.
By four-thirty, my bed looked like a clothing store had exploded. Shirts and pants covered every surface, and I stood in my underwear staring at the carnage like it might reorganize itself.
My phone buzzed. It was the text chain that Sierra, Calliope, Raven, and I used: The Chaos Coven.
Sierra: What are you wearing tonight?
I looked at the disaster surrounding me and typed back.
Jett: I have no idea. Send help.
Calliope: Define help.
Jett: I’ve tried on everything I own. Nothing looks right. I’m spiraling.
Raven: We’re coming over.
Jett: You don’t have to.
Calliope: Too late. Already walking.
Sierra: Be there in 10.
I barely had time to throw on sweatpants before my buzzer rang. All three of them stood in the hallway, Calliope carrying a tote bag that clinked suspiciously like wine bottles, Raven with a makeup kit, and Sierra with her camera because, of course, she brought her camera.
Raven dropped a leather jacket on my bed before she got out the makeup kit. “From the shop. Black and beat to hell. You’re going to look like you’ve earned something.”
“Intervention time.” Calliope pushed past me into the apartment. “Holy shit, it looks like your closet threw up in here.”
“I’m aware.”
“When’s the reservation?” Sierra asked, already surveying the clothing chaos.
“Seven-thirty.”
Raven checked her watch. “We have plenty of time.”
Calliope pulled out a bottle of wine and three glasses. “For us. You’re not drinking until after the date. Last thing you need is to show up tipsy.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.” She poured generous glasses for herself, Raven, and Sierra, then turned to face me with the focus of a general planning a military operation. “Okay. What vibe are we going for?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”
“Wrong answer.” Sierra dug through the clothes on my bed. “You want to look hot but not like you’re trying too hard. Confident but approachable. Like this matters, but you’re not desperate.”
“That’s a lot of mixed signals.”
“Welcome to dating.” Raven dropped into my desk chair with her wine. “It’s all mixed signals.”
Calliope held up a deep green shirt, long sleeves, soft fabric, fitted but not tight. “This. With the black jeans that actually fit your ass properly.”
“Which black jeans?”
“The ones you wore to that wedding in September. The expensive ones.”
I dug through the pile and found them. “These?”
“Those.” She tossed me the shirt. “Try it on.”
I pulled on the jeans. She was right; they fit perfectly, and the green shirt showed off my shoulders and chest without being obvious about it.
“Oh.” Sierra’s eyes widened. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
I turned to look in the mirror. Not trying too hard, but the effort showed. The outfit said I care about this without screaming it.
“Shoes.” Raven pointed at my feet. “Not sneakers.”
I grabbed my brown leather boots, the ones I saved for special occasions because they’d cost me a week’s salary.
“Perfect.” Calliope nodded approvingly. “Now sit down. We’re doing your hair.”
“My hair’s fine, darling.”
“Your hair is always fine, but tonight it needs to be exceptional.” She pointed at my desk chair. “Sit.”
I sat.
Raven moved behind me with some product I didn’t recognize, working it through my hair with practiced efficiency. “You’re going to leave it natural but defined. Nothing too styled. You want him to want to run his hands through it.”
“Jesus, Raven.”
“What? I’m being practical.”
Sierra sat on my bed with her wine, watching us. “You nervous?”
“Terrified.”
“Good nervous or bad nervous?”
“Both?” I met her eyes in the mirror. “I really like him. That’s the scary part.”
“I know.” Her expression softened. “But that’s also the good part. Liking someone is supposed to be scary.”
“When did you get so wise about romance?” Calliope raised an eyebrow. “Last week you were pining over ghost girl.”
“Still am.” Sierra shrugged. “But I can give good advice even if I can’t take it.”
Raven stepped back. “There. Perfect. Now the ears.”
“What about them?”
She held up two small silver hoops. Simpler than my usual ones. More elegant. “Switch them out. These are better for a nice dinner.”
I swapped the earrings, and she was right again. Everything came together: the outfit, the hair, the subtle jewelry. I looked like someone going on a date. A real one.
“One more thing.” Calliope tapped her chin. “Cologne. The amber one, right?”
“Yeah.” I grabbed it from my dresser, the expensive stuff I saved for nights that mattered. Amber, vanilla, cardamom. Warm and sweet-spicy, a scent that made people lean closer.
I applied it to my wrists and neck, and Calliope gave a single nod.
“Okay.” She faced me. “Real talk time. You ready?”
“For what?”
“For us to tell you that you’re going to be amazing tonight, and even if you’re awkward or nervous or say something weird, Ellis already likes you. He wouldn’t have asked you out if he didn’t.”
“She’s right.” Sierra nodded. “He’s choosing to spend his Saturday night with you. That means something.”
“And if he doesn’t appreciate how incredible you are?” Raven cracked her knuckles. “He’s an idiot and we’ll key his car.”
“He doesn’t have a car.”
“We’ll figure something out.”
I laughed, stomach still in knots. “Thanks. For this. For showing up.”
“That’s what we do.” Calliope pulled me into a hug, and then Sierra and Raven joined until we were a pile of limbs and laughter in my tiny apartment. “Now go. You’re going to be late if you don’t leave soon.”
I grabbed my keys and my wallet, checked my reflection one more time: green shirt, black jeans, brown boots, hair perfect, smelling like amber and vanilla. I looked good. I was ready to be looked at.
I was ready.
“Text us updates!” Calliope called as I headed for the door.
“I’m not texting you during the date, you menaces.”
“Text us after then! We need details!”
“I’ll think about it!”
“We’re not leaving until you promise!”
“Fine! I promise!”
I heard their laughter as the door closed behind me, and I couldn’t help smiling as I headed down the stairs.
Seven-thirty. Park Slope. Sorella.
I could do this.
The restaurant looked exactly like its photos. Warm lighting, exposed brick, intimate without being pretentious. Through the windows, I could see couples leaning across tables, wine glasses catching the candlelight.
My hands were sweating.
I wiped them on my jeans, took a breath, and pushed through the door.
Ellis was already there.
He stood near the host stand, and my brain short-circuited for a second. Dark jeans, a charcoal gray sweater that hugged his lean frame, those hazel eyes finding mine across the restaurant. He smiled, that careful smile I was starting to recognize, and the knot in my chest released.
“Hey.” I crossed to him, hyperaware of how I looked, how I smelled, how I was standing. “Sorry, am I late?”
“Right on time.” His gaze traveled over me, and I caught the flicker of appreciation. “You look… really good.”
“Thanks. You, too.” Understatement of the century. He looked incredible. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Five minutes. I’m always early for everything. Anxiety trait.”
“I respect that.”
The host appeared, a woman with kind eyes and an Italian accent that might’ve been fake but sounded charming, anyway. “Table for two?”
Ellis nodded, and she led us through the restaurant to a corner booth. Intimate, private, the spot you asked for when you actually wanted to talk to your date instead of shouting over background noise.
We slid into opposite sides of the booth, and we were alone. Candle between us. The reality of actually being on a date filling the space.
“So.” Ellis’ mouth twitched.
“So,” I echoed.
We both laughed. Better.
“I’m nervous.” Ellis turned his wine glass by the stem. “Is that weird to just say out loud?”
“No. I’m nervous, too.”
“Really?” His eyebrows rose. “You don’t seem nervous.”
“I’m very good at faking it.” I leaned back against the booth. “My friends staged an intervention this afternoon to help me get ready. I tried on approximately forty outfits.”
“Forty?”
“Might’ve been fifty. I lost count.” I gestured at what I ended up wearing. “This was a group decision.”
“Tell them they chose well.”
The waiter appeared with menus and a wine list, launching into specials that I barely heard because I was too focused on the fact Ellis hadn’t looked away.
“Do you drink wine?” he asked after the waiter left.
“Sometimes. I’m not like, a wine person, but I can appreciate a good one.”
“Me neither. I just know I like reds better than whites.” He scanned the menu. “We could share a bottle? Or is that presumptuous?”
“That sounds good.”