Chapter Fifteen — Tessa
Chapter Fifteen
Tessa
The second real date began with Rhett showing up twelve minutes early and pretending he had not.
He stood outside the student center holding two takeout bags and looking at his phone with exaggerated concentration.
I stopped several feet away.
“You know I can see you.”
He looked up.
“Interesting.”
“You’re early.”
“I’m nearby.”
“You are standing directly in front of the building.”
“Coincidence.”
“You texted me that you were here.”
“Transparency.”
I looked at the bags.
“What did you bring?”
“Dinner.”
“This is not a restaurant.”
“Correct.”
“You said dinner.”
“This is dinner.”
“You said date.”
“This is also a date.”
I folded my arms.
Rhett smiled.
Not broadly.
Just enough to make it clear he had planned something and expected me to tolerate it.
“Where are we going?”
“Inside.”
“That is not specific.”
“Details would ruin the surprise.”
“We discussed surprises.”
“And informed consent.”
“Yes.”
“If you hate it, we leave.”
He said it easily now.
Not defensively.
Like he had remembered.
Like my discomfort mattered more than the success of his plan.
That should not have been romantic.
It was.
I stepped closer.
“What kind of food?”
“Thai.”
My suspicion eased.
“Sensible.”
“I contain practical depth.”
“You ordered the spiciest thing on the menu, didn’t you?”
His expression changed.
Barely.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Rhett.”
“It had four peppers beside it.”
“That was a warning.”
“I saw it as a challenge.”
“You see everything as a challenge.”
“Not everything.”
His eyes moved over me.
Slowly enough that I noticed.
Carefully enough that it did not feel cheap.
I had worn dark jeans, a cream sweater, and the same gold hoops Paige had called date earrings.
His gaze paused at them.
Then returned to my face.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“You wore the earrings.”
My face warmed.
“They are ordinary earrings.”
“They’re date earrings.”
I stared.
“Paige told you.”
“No.”
“She absolutely told you.”
“She implied.”
“She is dead to me.”
“Temporarily?”
“Under review.”
He grinned.
Then opened the door.
“Come on.”
The student center was nearly empty.
A few students studied near the coffee shop. A janitor polished the tile near the main entrance. Most of the lights had been dimmed.
Rhett led me toward the back staircase.
I stopped.
“Where are we going?”
“Third floor.”
“The event rooms are closed.”
“Not all of them.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“I have a key.”
“Why?”
He held up a university access card.
“It is not technically a key.”
“Why do you have access?”
“Team partnership.”
“Did Coach approve this?”
“Define approve.”
I turned around.
He caught my hand.
Not tightly.
Just enough to stop me.
“Tessa.”
I looked down at our joined hands.
Then at him.
“No illegal entry.”
“No illegal entry.”
“No property damage.”
“None planned.”
“That answer was poor.”
“No property damage.”
“No public humiliation.”
“Not unless you challenge me.”
“I am not competing in anything.”
His smile became suspiciously innocent.
I should have left.
Instead, I let him lead me upstairs.
That was becoming a problem.
The third-floor event room overlooked the center of campus through wide glass windows.
Inside, the lights were off except for several small lamps set along the walls.
A blanket covered the floor.
Two cushions.
Paper plates.
A stack of index cards.
And, near the window, a portable projector aimed at a blank wall.
I stopped in the doorway.
“What is this?”
“Dinner.”
“This is more than dinner.”
“I panicked.”
“You keep saying that after elaborate planning.”
“It can be both.”
I stepped inside.
The room smelled like curry, warm bread, and the faint citrus cleaner the university used everywhere.
The windows showed campus at night.
Golden lamps.
Bare trees.
Students moving below like pieces on a board.
No cameras.
No team.
No audience.
Just us.
Rhett set the food on the blanket.
I looked at the index cards.
“What are those?”
He moved too quickly.
“Nothing.”
I picked them up.
His eyes closed.
The first card read:
Favorite food?
The second:
Worst habit?
The third:
What did you want to be when you were ten?
I looked at him.
“This is the couples challenge.”
“Modified.”
“You said we would not do it.”
“For cameras.”
“You brought it on a date.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
“No strangers.”
I flipped through the cards.
Favorite movie.
Best childhood memory.
Something you are afraid to admit.
I stopped.
The last one felt different.
Too real.
Rhett watched me.
“I thought we could actually learn the answers,” he said.
My chest tightened.
He had remembered.
That fake couples were supposed to know everything.
That we knew pieces.
That he wanted more.
I lowered the cards.
“You planned a private version.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His expression shifted.
The teasing faded.
“Because I want to know you.”
No line.
No performance.
The simplest truth possible.
I looked down at the cards again.
“Some of these are invasive.”
“We can skip any.”
“Some are ridiculous.”
“Those are mine.”
“And the projector?”
“Movie.”
“Which movie?”
“Also classified.”
“I do not like the amount of classified information in this relationship.”
The word left my mouth before I could stop it.
Relationship.
Not arrangement.
Not situation.
Relationship.
Rhett heard it.
Of course he did.
His gaze held mine.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he said, carefully, “Do you want to take it back?”
I could have.
He was giving me the chance.
I looked at the blanket.
The cards.
The dinner.
At the man standing in front of me trying so hard not to look hopeful.
“No,” I said.
His shoulders eased.
“Good.”
“Do not look that pleased.”
“Impossible.”
I sat on the blanket.
Rhett joined me.
We opened the food.
He had ordered my favorite curry.
Mild.
His was bright red.
“Four peppers?” I asked.
“Four.”
He took one bite.
His expression remained controlled for approximately two seconds.
Then his eyes watered.
I handed him my water bottle.
“Do not say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You look delighted.”
“I am concerned.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I care about you.”
He drank half the bottle.
“That was manipulative.”
“It was accurate.”
He looked at me over the bottle.
My pulse shifted.
Then he coughed.
The moment disappeared.
I laughed.
“Cruel.”
“You ordered pain voluntarily.”
“It builds character.”
“You already have too much character.”
We ate.
Talked.
Argued about whether hockey players should be trusted with kitchen appliances.
Rhett insisted the toaster incident had been overrepresented in his public narrative.
I told him it had been underrepresented in safety training.
The ease returned.
Not empty ease.
The kind built from knowing where the sharp edges were and choosing not to press them unnecessarily.
After dinner, Rhett picked up the cards.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Great.”
He handed me one.
I read it aloud.
“Favorite food.”
He pointed at the empty container in front of me.
“That seems easy.”
“Blueberry muffins.”
His expression softened.
“I knew that.”
“I know.”
“Mine is my mom’s chicken enchiladas.”
“That is disappointingly wholesome.”
“What did you expect?”
“Protein powder.”
“That is not food.”
“Tell your teammates.”
I drew another.
“Worst habit.”
Rhett leaned back on one hand.
“You first.”
“I overprepare.”
“That is not a worst habit.”
“It can be.”
“No. That’s a personality trait people put in interviews.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Fine. I avoid decisions until someone else makes them easier.”
His smile disappeared.
Not because the answer was funny.
Because it was honest.
I looked down at the card.
“Your turn.”
He took his time.
“I make people like me before they can decide whether they actually do.”
That landed.
Hard.
I looked at him.
He shrugged, but the movement was too casual.
“You asked.”
“No. The card asked.”
“Coward.”
“Correct.”
I set the card aside.
“Do you think people don’t actually like you?”
“I think they like the version I make easy.”
“And the other version?”
His gaze moved to mine.
“I don’t know how many people wait for him.”
The room felt quieter.
I reached for his hand.
Not to fix.
Not to reassure too quickly.
Just to be there.
His fingers closed around mine.
“I waited,” I said.
His expression changed.
Barely.
Enough.
“I understand.”
We sat like that for a moment.
Then Rhett picked another card.
“Best childhood memory.”
I looked toward the window.
“That is difficult.”
“Skip?”
“No.”
I thought about it.
Not debate trophies.
Not report cards.
Not anything measurable.
“Making pancakes with my mother,” I said.
Rhett became very still.
I rarely talked about her.
Most people knew only the outline.
She left.
Dad stayed.
End of story.
Except it was not.
“She burned the first batch every time,” I continued. “On purpose, I think. She said the first batch was for the kitchen.”
Rhett smiled faintly.
“The kitchen ate pancakes?”
“It demanded tribute.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“She let me make shapes. Stars. Animals. Once I made something that was supposed to be a horse.”
“What was it?”
“A disaster.”
“Genetic connection to my toaster.”
I gave him a look.
He sobered.
“What happened to that memory?”
The question was careful.
Not what happened to your mother.
What happened to the memory.
“I stopped letting it be good.”
His thumb moved against mine.
“Why?”
“Because she left.”
The words were quiet.
Still sharp.
Rhett waited.
I stared at the lights outside.
“For a long time, I thought if someone left, everything before that became evidence I had misunderstood them.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“Do you still think that?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
The answer surprised me.
Maybe because I meant it.
Rhett’s eyes held mine.
“That helps.”
“Your turn.”
He picked another card.
“What did you want to be when you were ten?”
“Hockey player.”
“Predictable.”
“And magician.”
I stared.