Chapter 9
Table for Four? Dating with Exes
ETHAN
"So let me get this straight, which is ironic given the circumstances, he bought you coffee, talked about his feelings openly, introduced you to his frat bros AS HIS DATE, and asked you to dinner?
" Sylas asks, sprawled dramatically across our living room floor, nest of pillows and blankets.
"Are you sure he is the same species as The Walking Red Flag? "
Sinking deeper into our makeshift fort, a tradition we've maintained since freshman year for all major life discussions. Empty ice cream containers and a half-eaten pizza surround us like offerings to the gods of emotional processing.
"I know, I know." My fingers pick at a loose thread on one of the throw pillows. "But what if it's too good to be true?"
"Maybe it is," Sylas concedes, rolling onto his back. "But a week ago, you were dating a guy who literally wore a mask to avoid being seen with you in public. We're not even talking about a low bar anymore; this is like limbo for disappointment.”
That pulls a genuine laugh from me. Sylas has a gift for cutting through my overthinking with brutal accuracy. I reach for another slice of cold pizza, buying myself time before responding.
"Oh, and I saw Ryan yesterday," I keep my tone deliberately casual while staring at the ceiling.
Sylas bolts upright, his face instantly alert. "What? Where? Do I need to get my baseball bat?"
"He was lurking outside the Health Sciences building. I think he was waiting for me."
"Of course he was," Sylas' eyes roll dramatically. "Nothing says 'I'm totally not interested anymore' like stalking someone between classes."
"I ducked out the side door before he saw me."
"Smart. What do you think he wanted?"
Sighing, I drop my half-eaten pizza slice back into the box. "Probably to remind me how I'm ruining his life by not being his secret anymore."
"Ah, yes, the tragedy of Patient Zero of Douchebaggery, forced to live as his authentic self," Sylas presses the back of his hand to his forehead in mock distress. "Someone call Netflix, we've got a tear-jerker documentary on our hands."
A small smile creeps over my face. "He texted me three times yesterday."
"Show me," He demands, reaching for my phone, which sits charging within our pillow kingdom.
"I deleted them."
Sylas gasps with theatrical offence. "Without showing me first? The BETRAYAL."
"They were the usual. 'We need to talk,' 'You're being unreasonable,' 'No one will ever understand you like I do.'"
"Translation: 'I need to manipulate you,' 'How dare you have self-respect,' and 'No one else will put up with my bullshit, so please come back.'" Sylas's voice drips with scorn.
Hugging a pillow to my chest, I'm quietly serious. "What if he corners me somewhere?"
Sylas's expression softens. "Then you walk away. Or call me. Or call campus security if he won't leave you alone." He pauses, an impish grin replacing his concern. "Or better yet, call your new buff boyfriend to flex menacingly in his direction."
"He's not my boyfriend!" My voice squeaks embarrassingly.
"Not YET. But let me just point out that while Fifty Shades of Nay is lurking in bushes like a discount store stalker, Tyler proudly introduces you to his friends and buys you coffee in the most public place on campus."
Burying my face in the pillow, I groan. "I know. It's just... I don't know if I can do this again."
"Do what? Be happy? Have a functioning relationship?"
"Get my hopes up."
Sylas's voice gentles. "Babe, that's kind of the point of dating. The hopes go up."
Lifting my head to meet his eyes. "But then they come crashing down."
"Not always," Sylas scoots closer, his usual sharp edges softening. "And even if they do, you survive. We build this ridiculously comfortable pillow nest, eat our feelings, and try again."
My lips twitch, fighting the losing battle against happiness as my cheeks surrender to a full smile. There is something comforting in our ritual, the familiar smell of our apartment, the pillows stolen from every room, the way Sylas always knows when I need to process rather than study.
"You should have seen how Tyler talked about his major," I say, my thoughts returning to the coffee shop. "He's smart, Sy. Like, really smart."
"Mmm-hmm," Sylas smirks. "And I'm sure his biceps had nothing to do with this glowing review."
Throwing the small pillow at him, my lips turn down in a pout, "I'm being serious!"
"So am I! Smart AND hot is a dangerous combination." Sylas catches the pillow and tucks it behind his head. "What's his major again?"
"Environmental Engineering. He wants to design sustainable water systems."
"Wow, saving the planet AND hydrating the masses. Is he genetically engineered?"
A laugh escapes. "Stop."
"Tell me more about what makes Mr. Perfect so perfect," Sylas says, reaching for his third slice of pizza.
"He's not perfect," I insist, though the warmth in my chest suggests I might think otherwise. "He's... complicated. He's only just figuring out he likes guys. Or at least, that he likes me."
"Ah, the classic bi-awakening. Always a fun rollercoaster."
"That's the thing," A large breath whooshes out. "What if I'm just an experiment? What if once the novelty wears off, he realizes he prefers women after all?"
"That's a possibility," Sylas is surprisingly serious. "But it's also possible he genuinely likes you. Bisexuality exists, you know."
"I know that intellectually, but—"
"But emotionally, you're terrified of being someone's Phase Two."
"Exactly."
Sylas studies me for a moment. "Look, I'm not saying marry the guy. I'm saying maybe… MAYBE, he deserves a chance to prove he's not an asshat."
"Since when are you the optimistic one?"
"Since you started smiling again," Sylas replies. "It's annoying, but I'll adapt."
Falling back against the pillows, I stare at the ceiling. The worst part is, I really do like Tyler. His laugh, his focus when I was talking, the way he never once played on his phone during our entire coffee date, unlike Ryan, who'd be glued to his screen even during dinners together.
"How do guys usually act on second dates?" I ask, suddenly anxious. "It's been so long since I've had a proper one."
"Honey, I am the wrong person to ask. My second dates usually involve less conversation and more horizontal gymnastics."
"Sylas!"
"What? I'm not the relationship guy; you are. Which is why it's been torture watching you waste your energy on the Nightmare on Date Street for eight months."
Groaning, my hands press into my cheeks. "Don't remind me."
Sylas props himself up on one elbow, his expression turning earnest. "All joking aside, do you want my actual advice?"
"Please."
"Go on the date. Be yourself. If Tyler is genuine, great. If not, you'll figure it out. But don't pre-reject yourself because you're scared."
"Pre-reject myself?"
"It's what you do," Sylas says gently. "You find reasons it won't work before it has a chance to fall apart on its own."
"That's..." I start to protest, but falter. "Actually, scarily accurate."
"I know. I'm wise beyond my years," Sylas says, reverting to his usual dramatic self. "Now, more importantly, what are you wearing to dinner tomorrow?"
Bolting upright, a panic slices through me. "Oh god, I hadn't even thought about that."
Sylas grins wickedly. "Lucky for you, I have. I'm thinking those jeans that make your ass look like it could launch a thousand ships, and that green button-down that matches your eyes."
As Sylas dives into picking apart my sad excuse for a wardrobe, I'm hit with this weird mix of pure panic and total excitement.
Maybe Tyler is too good to be true. Perhaps this will end in disaster.
But as I lie in our pillow nest, laughing at Sylas's increasingly outrageous suggestions, I realize I want to find out.
For the first time in months, possibly longer, I am genuinely looking forward to a date. My heart does this weird little skip-hop thing that my nursing brain wants to classify as palpitations, but my regular brain knows is just pure anticipation.
After years of mediocre coffee meetups with guys whose names I barely remember, followed by the Ryan Era, the highlight being that spectacularly awful dinner where I had to diagnose his lactose intolerance the hard way, he farted all night.
This feels different. Better. Like maybe the universe isn't entirely determined to make my love life a case study in emotional trauma.
The address Tyler texted me leads to a two-story Victorian house with Christmas lights strung along its wraparound porch. A small, hand-painted sign reading "Rosalie's" hangs beside the door, so discreet I would have missed it entirely if I hadn't been looking.
Hesitating on the sidewalk, double-checking my phone to make sure I'm in the right place. This looks more like someone's home than a restaurant.
"Ethan!"
I turn to see Tyler jogging up the street, waving. He's wearing a deep blue button-down that makes his shoulders look even broader in the twilight, a stark contrast to the blood-splattered psycho killer from Halloween night.
"Sorry," he says, slightly out of breath as he reaches me. "I was going to be here early, but parking was a nightmare."
"No problem. I just got here," I gesture toward the house. "This is the place?"
Tyler smiles, looking adorably nervous as he nods. "It's not what most people expect."
He steps forward to open the screen door for me, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as he guides me inside. The gentle pressure sends a warm flutter through my chest that has nothing to do with the temperature.
Inside, the former home has been transformed into the coziest restaurant I've ever seen.
Mismatched vintage tables are scattered throughout what must have once been the living and dining rooms. Local artwork covers floral-patterned wallpaper, and the lighting comes from an eclectic collection of antique lamps rather than harsh overhead lights.