5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Adam
I pulled out all the stops for our date, renting a local Hawks Roost restaurant for the evening, and replacing all of the staff with top-notch chefs and servers from Nashville. Mom and Pop’s Country Cooking has been transformed into a world-class dining experience, and Poppy and I have the whole place to ourselves.
Everything’s perfect. Or so I thought.
Poppy sits across from me in a navy cocktail dress that hugs her curves like it was tailored just for her. Her hair’s curled loosely over one shoulder, and her lipstick is a deep berry shade that makes her brown eyes stand out like headlights in fog.
She looks breathtaking.
And completely and totally miserable.
She’s barely touched the amuse-bouche, and when the waiter tried to explain the molecular gastronomy foam on the second course, she blinked at him like he’d just described a crime scene. She’s quiet and reserved, sipping her $85 glass of wine like it’s a chore.
I point to the plate in front of her. “You really should try the appetizer. It’s delicious. The head chef tonight is none other than Roberto Vizzini.”
Her lips press together into a straight line, and she doesn’t say anything.
“He’s a James Beard award winner,” I tell her. “One of the very best chefs in the world.”
She nods politely, taking another sip of her wine.
“He cooked at the Met Gala last year. Apparently, Gigi Hadid cried over his truffle risotto.”
Poppy blinks. “That seems... deeply unnecessary.”
I’m dying here.
I launch into my most crowd-pleasing topics—polling numbers, bipartisan initiatives, a new green energy bill I helped pass. She continues to bob her head politely, but still she refuses to engage in any conversation.
I lean in slightly, trying to find a crack in her armor. “I looked you up after I saw that article about the auction. I saw you won the Benton Award for Public Service. That’s a huge accomplishment. Congratulations.”
That gets her attention. Her spine straightens and her expression shifts—just slightly—but enough that I notice. “Yeah,” she says. “That was a surprise. I didn’t even know I was nominated.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say honestly. “You’ve always been a fighter.”
She shrugs, but there’s color in her cheeks now. “It was for a juvenile sentencing reform case. We had a win. Small, but it mattered.”
I nod, setting down my fork. “Tell me about it.”
She does. And for the first time tonight, she’s animated. Her eyes light up, her hands move as she talks, and that passion—the one that used to scare professors and inspire classmates—is there in full force. I sit back and watch her with a mix of awe and… guilt.
She’s out here grinding, changing lives. And I’m giving speeches about the state bird at middle schools.
When the waiter brings the fourth course—some kind of deconstructed duck ravioli that looks more like art than food—I clear my throat.
“Hey, Poppy?”
She glances up mid-sip, one brow raised.
“Remember how we used to study in the law library until they kicked us out?”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “And we’d sit on the steps outside and eat cold pizza from that place with the garlic knots.”
“Gino’s,” I say. “They knew us by name.”
She nods, the smile gaining strength. “You used to draw constitutional flowcharts on napkins.”
I grin. “You used to correct them.”
A pause. Then I say, “Wanna ditch this place and eat pizza in the parking lot?”
She blinks. “You’re serious?”
“Completely. I’ll even steal the wine.”
And I do. Well—technically I ask the waiter to pack it to go. But it feels like a heist, and she laughs when I say that, so I count it as a win.
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting on the curb of the parking lot behind the restaurant, my jacket spread out beneath us, a hot Jet’s Pizza box between us, and two fancy wine glasses in our hands.
“This is so dumb,” she says, laughing as she pulls a slice free, cheese stretching like taffy.
“It’s nostalgic, ” I correct. “Not quite as good as Gino’s, but close enough.”
She hums in agreement. “And significantly better than whatever that last dish was.”
“You didn’t actually taste it,” I point out.
“Please,” she scoffs. “A deconstructed ravioli? What the hell is that ?”
I chuckle. “We can agree that pizza always hits the spot.”
“Hear, hear!” she says, raising her wine glass.
We clink glasses and eat with our hands, grease and all, and it feels good. Easy. Familiar. The tension melts away, replaced by that old rhythm we used to have—back when the only stakes were finals and cold pizza was a luxury.
I lean back on my hands, looking up at the stars peeking through the city haze. Beside me, Poppy licks marinara off her thumb and laughs at something I said about campaign slogans.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I feel light.
Not Governor Boston. Not the potential presidential candidate.
Just Adam and Poppy, like old times. I want this night to last forever, but like all good things, I know it must come to an end eventually. But for now, I’ll just drink in the sound of her laughter on a perfect autumn night.