41
Hannah
By Wednesday at six forty-five, I have decided Italian food is emotionally suspicious.
It’s not the pasta—pasta has never wronged me.
It’s the inherent *date-ness* of it. Italian restaurants are places of dim amber lighting and flickering candles, where people lean across small tables like they know exactly what they want.
They’re places where couples split tiramisu and indulge in meaningful eye contact over a shared bread basket.
I am not currently qualified for meaningful eye contact. I am barely qualified for bread.
Ella is perched on my bed while I stand before the mirror, smoothing the front of my black sweater dress for the eighth time.
It’s simple and fitted—enough to feel intentional, but not so tight that it screams for attention.
I’ve paired it with sheer tights and boots because Ella declared jeans "coward clothing" for a mid-week dinner date, and her logic was unfortunately persuasive.
Gerald Reed-Wilder is sitting on my pillow, watching me.
“I don’t like that he’s judging,” I mutter, adjusting a sleeve.
Ella glances at the rubber duck. “Gerald believe in accountability, Han. He’s a veteran of the locker room.”
“Gerald is three inches tall.”
“Still taller than some men, emotionally speaking.” She stands and walks over, adjusting a loose wave of my hair. Her expression softens. “You look hot. In a tasteful, academic, could-ruin-a-man’s-focus-over-fettuccine way.”
“Too many adjectives.”
“Accurate ones.”
I look back at my reflection. I do look pretty.
Date Hannah stares back at me—the girl Ethan wants to take out.
The girl who is focusing on something simple.
The girl who tucked Nate’s hockey shirt into the bottom drawer under a stack of towels and has not checked to see if it still smells like him today.
Not once. Okay, once. But only because I needed socks, and the dresser is a shared ecosystem. It was an environmental hazard, not a relapse.
My phone buzzes. Ethan.
**Ethan:** *Outside whenever you’re ready. No rush.*
My stomach gives a respectable, law-abiding flutter. Ella watches my face. “Ethan?”
“Yes. He’s here.”
“You smiled. A real, non-spiraling smile.”
“I’m trying, Ella. I want to give him a fair chance.”
“Then let nice be nice,” she says, her voice gentling. “Don’t punish him for not being something else.”
Ethan is waiting at the curb in a charcoal coat over a dark green sweater. He looks polished and clean. When he sees me, his expression shifts—just a fraction—but enough to make my chest warm.
“Wow,” he says softly. “Hi.”
“Hi. You look nice.”
“I tried.” He laughs, a little sheepish. “I figured a second real date deserved the effort.”
“Second real date?” I ask as he opens the car door for me.
“Anatomy coffee was a tactical meeting,” he says, sliding into the driver's seat. “Thai was the icebreaker. This is the one where I actually try to impress you.”
The restaurant is fifteen minutes off campus, all brick walls and low-hanging plants. It smells like garlic and red wine. Ethan is a perfect date; he’s attentive, he asks about my day, and he laughs at my jokes about Professor Hale’s "lateral moves in educational violence."
It feels good to sit across from someone who is trying to know me in a straightforward way. No rules. No safety words. No history hiding in the upholstery.
“Do you want to split the baked ziti?” he asks. “Or is sharing food too aggressive for date two?”
“Sharing is mandatory in my book.”
The conversation is easy. We talk about his sister, my cousins, and why athletes insist on making every meal into a protein-powder science project.
If I take the night moment by moment, it works.
It’s only when I step back to evaluate the "shape" of it that the silence from Nate starts to ring in my ears.
*Don’t punish nice for not being something else,* Ella’s voice echoes. I stay in the moment. I focus on the way Ethan looks in the candlelight.
When the server brings dessert, Ethan leans in. “Tiramisu?”
My mind betrays me instantly. *You should decide sex before my hands are on you. Before you’re naked in my bed.* Nate’s voice, rough and serious, fills my head so clearly I almost flinch.
“Hannah? You okay? You zoned out for a second.”
“Yes,” I say, perhaps too quickly. “Long day. Tiramisu is the only cure.”
We walk through the quiet downtown streets afterward, our breath fogging in the cold air. At the corner, Ethan’s hand brushes mine. A question. I answer by letting my fingers loosen, and he takes my hand. His palm is a little rough, his grip firm and careful.
It feels nice. Safe. Not like a match thrown into gasoline, but a steady, quiet glow. Maybe I need quiet.
“This okay?” he asks, squeezing my hand.
I nod, even though my first instinct was to listen for a different voice asking for a color. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
When he drives me back, the end-of-date weight settles over the car. He walks me to the steps of my dorm and stands close, but doesn't crowd me.
“I had a really good time tonight,” he says.
“Me too.”
He looks at my mouth, and my pulse picks up. It’s not a lightning strike, but it’s a respectable hum. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”
I nod. “Yes.”
The touch is gentle at first, his hand resting on my waist over my coat.
His mouth is warm and careful. But then he deepens it, his hand tightening slightly, becoming more intentional.
I kiss him back, letting my hands rest against his chest.
I like being wanted. I like knowing he’s losing a bit of his carefulness because of me.
But my body remains... contained. There’s no rush of heat, no dizzying urge to pull him closer until our heartbeats are the same thing.
Ethan pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “Still okay?”
*Still.* The word catches. “Yes.”
“I’d like to see you again,” he says, brushing a stray hair from my face. “Friday?”
I hesitate. Friday is Nate’s next home game. I know it because the schedule is etched into my brain. But this is the choice. Simple vs. Complicated.
“Friday works,” I say. The words feel like a door closing.
Upstairs, I find a note from Ella on my desk: *HOW WAS THE PASTA?*
My phone buzzes. It’s Ethan. *Home. Still thinking about the kiss.* I smile and type back something sweet. I’m giving him a chance. I’m being "normal." I wash my face and change into my own Northwood sweatshirt—emotionally neutral cotton.
But as I lie in the dark, the date replays in fragments. Ethan’s smile. The bread basket. The kiss. It was good. Actual good.
So why does my brain keep slipping around the edges of the memory? Why does my body compare warmth to fire and then scold itself for wanting to burn?
I roll onto my side, facing away from the dresser where Nate’s shirt is buried. I chose simple. I’m practicing it.
But as sleep starts to pull me under, my mind betrays me one last time. It doesn't give me Nate’s hands, or his mouth, or his bedroom. It gives me his silence. And in the dark, that silence feels louder than anything Ethan said all night.