Chapter 10
Jeremiah
The ceiling fan spun lazily above my bed, its blades cutting through the darkness in a hypnotic rhythm that had become my nightly meditation.
Creak.
One full rotation.
Creak.
Another.
The sound was oddly soothing, like a mechanical heartbeat that matched the steady thrum of contentment in my chest.
I’d been lying there for the better part of an hour, hands folded behind my head, replaying every moment of dinner with Theo: the way his hair had looked even more tousled than usual, like he’d spent twenty minutes trying to tame it and then given up in adorable defeat, how he’d adjusted his glasses at least fifteen times during our conversation—a nervous habit that I was quickly becoming obsessed with.
And, sweet potatoes, he was smart.
Not just book-smart, though he was definitely that, but genuinely intelligent in a way that made everything sound fascinating when it came out of his mouth.
Even ordering off the menu had been like watching someone conduct a symphony, the way he’d considered each option with careful deliberation before settling on the mushroom risotto “because the chef probably knows more about flavor combinations than I do.”
Creak.
My mind drifted, painting pictures of a future I had no business imagining after one interrupted dinner that could barely be called a date.
I saw us at Piedmont Park on a Sunday afternoon, Theo laughing as we tried to keep up with Debbie’s boundless energy, her pigtails flying as she raced from the swings to the slide and back again.
Maybe we’d have a picnic, and I’d watch him help her with a sandwich, his patient hands guiding her smaller ones.
Then the image shifted, became something completely ridiculous.
We were floating above the city in a hot-air balloon, of all things, Theo’s hair whipping in the wind as he pointed out landmarks below.
It made absolutely no sense because I was terrified of heights and would probably spend the entire ride with my eyes squeezed shut, gripping the basket like my life depended on it.
But in my imagination, I was fearless, standing close behind Theo with my arms around his waist, breathing in the scent of his shampoo as we soared through cotton-ball clouds.
Creak.
Another scene materialized: a perfect summer day, ice cream cones melting in the heat as we walked down some tree-lined street.
I’d tap Theo’s nose with the vanilla end of my cone, leaving a tiny dollop of cream on the tip while he looked at me in stunned surprise.
Then he’d laugh—that warm, unguarded sound that had crawled into my chest and made itself at home—and probably retaliate by getting chocolate on my chin.
The fantasies were so vivid, so real. For a moment, I could almost taste the sweetness on my tongue.
Creak.
Then reality crashed down like a bucket of ice water with one simple question:
What if the phone call had been an excuse?
The thought struck so suddenly that I actually sat up in bed, my stomach dropping to somewhere around my ankles, which was hard because I was in bed and my ankles weren’t really below my stomach, but roll with me here, okay?
I’d set up the “rescue call” scenario before, back when Mateo had convinced me to go on a blind date with his cousin’s friend.
We’d arranged for Sisi to call an hour into dinner with some manufactured emergency if I needed an out.
If I ignored the call, things were going well, and they could resume their normal programming.
If I answered, we’d use a predetermined emergency to get me out of the date posthaste.
What if Theo had done the same thing?
What if Julia had been instructed to call with a convenient excuse?
What if Debbie hadn’t been sick at all, and Theo had just been looking for a polite way to escape an evening he wasn’t enjoying?
With me.
My chest tightened as I replayed our conversation, searching for signs I might have missed.
Had he seemed uncomfortable? Bored? Had I talked too much about work, or not enough about books, or said something stupid that made him realize we had nothing in common?
I wasn’t nearly as smart as him, not by a country mile.
Had my thick head sent him running for some guy who actually knew the difference between algebra and geometricness? Gastronomy? Geometry! That’s it.
Creak.
Sigh.
Maybe I’d read the signals all wrong. Maybe his nervous fidgeting hadn’t been attraction but anxiety about how to let me down gently. Maybe those smiles I’d been cataloging in my memory were just politeness masking disappointment.
Creak.
The fan continued its endless rotation, but the sound had lost its comforting quality. Now it felt mocking, like a timer counting down the seconds until I’d have to face the truth that this thing I’d been building up in my head was a stupid, unrealistic one-sided fantasy.
But then my brain, apparently tired of the spiral into self-doubt, decided to stage an intervention.
He kissed you back on the porch—on his porch, idiot, it pointed out reasonably, if a bit harshly. My inner voice could be a real bitch sometimes. People don’t usually kiss back if they’re not interested.
He said yes to dinner in the first place. Multiple times.
He looked genuinely disappointed when he had to leave early, not relieved.
And did you see the way he smiled when you said you understood about Debbie needing him? That wasn’t the smile of someone looking for an escape.
Holy cow. My inner voice was being supportive. Something was seriously wrong . . . or right. I couldn’t quite tell.
The anxious knot in my stomach began to loosen.
Maybe I was overthinking this.
I did that.
A lot.
Maybe a sick kid was just a sick kid, and a concerned parent was just a concerned parent, and not everything had to be some elaborate deception.
Maybe Theo had actually enjoyed our dinner as much as I had and really was looking forward to a second crack at the apple. Bite of the bat? Stab at the pie?
Shit, a second date.
Creak.
Without any conscious decision from my brain, my hand reached toward the nightstand and grabbed my phone. My fingers moved across the screen as though controlled by some mystical puppeteer with the most precise strings ever made, typing out a message before my rational mind could intervene.
Me: How’s our little chef? Can’t wait until next time.
I stared at the words for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the send button. It was casual but caring, showed I was thinking about Debbie without being pushy about another date. It was perfect.
Or it was completely inappropriate to text someone at eleven-thirty at night after an interrupted first date while their daughter was ill and probably needing emergency care or an ambulance or life flight or . . .
Creak.
The fan spun on, indifferent to my internal debate.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed send.
The message disappeared into the digital ether, carrying with it all my hope and anxiety . . . and the desperate wish that I hadn’t just made a complete fool of myself.
I set the phone back on the nightstand and returned to watching the ceiling fan, but now the rhythm felt different. Instead of meditation, it was anticipation.
Creak.
Waiting.
Creak.
Hoping.
Creak.
That maybe—just maybe—I hadn’t imagined the magic of tonight after all.