CHAPTER NINE
SOPHIA
“Mom, seriously, which friend’s house am I going to again?” Madison scrolls through her phone from the passenger seat, sneakers propped against my dashboard despite my hundred warnings not to.
“Feet down,” I say automatically. “And it’s Chloe’s. The sleepover, remember? You’ve been planning this all week.”
“Oh right.” She drops her feet but keeps scrolling. “I thought that was tomorrow night.”
“It’s…both, now.”
Madison slowly looks up from her phone, one eyebrow raised. “Both nights? Since when?”
“Since…this afternoon. I called Rachel and asked if you could stay tonight too.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She drags out the sound, eyes narrowing with teenage suspicion. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that you suddenly needed to run home and change into your good dress?”
My face heats. “That’s just…being tidy.”
“Sure.” She grins. “So where are you going? Hot date with a medical journal?”
“I told you. Book club.”
“Right. Book club. That’s why you smell like your expensive perfume and not like the ER.” She goes back to scrolling, but I can see her smirking.
“Madison—”
“Dad’s being weird about tomorrow’s soccer game again,” Madison says, quickly changing the subject. “Says he might have a work thing.”
Translation: Troy’s new girlfriend probably wants to do something else. I bite back what I want to say. “We’ll figure it out, baby. One thing at a time.”
It’s 7:57. I managed to get home, shower, and somehow squeeze into the one nice dress that still fits post-divorce stress eating.
The black one that made Troy say I looked “too intense” and “intimidating”—words he wielded like weapons during our marriage.
Words that, with every utterance, made me fold in on myself just a little more.
Now, I think as I smooth the fabric over my hips, intense and intimidating sound like compliments. Perfect for tonight, then.
“So.” Madison’s voice goes carefully casual. “This date. Is it the paramedic with the accent?”
I nearly rear-end the Honda in front of us. “What? How did you—”
“Mom. Everyone knows. Literally everyone. Aisha’s mom works in radiology and she said you claimed some hot New Zealand guy in front of Dr. Lee.” She grins. “About time someone shut him down.”
“Madison Grace.”
“What? He’s gross. Remember when he hit on the student nurse at the Christmas party? She was like, nineteen.”
Christ. Nothing’s sacred in that hospital. “It’s just dinner. And how do you even know about—never mind.”
“Is it the same guy you said could call you anytime?”
My face burns. “You heard about that too?”
“Mom, give me a little credit.” She actually looks up from her phone to study me. “You really like him, huh?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You always say that.” She’s quiet for a moment, then: “You know it’s okay, right? To like someone who isn’t Dad?”
My throat tightens. When did my fifteen-year-old get so wise? And when did she start seeing through me so easily? Here was my daughter, understanding what I couldn’t say aloud: that I was afraid. Afraid of wanting. Afraid of hoping. Afraid of getting it wrong again.
The radio fills the silence, and suddenly a familiar beat comes on. Chappell Roan’s “The Giver” starts playing.
“Oh my God, I love this song!” Madison cranks up the volume.
Without thinking, I start singing along, word for word.
Madison whips her head around so fast I worry about whiplash. “MOM. You know this song?”
“What? I like Chappell Roan!”
“But do you know what it’s ABOUT?” She’s looking at me like I just announced I speak fluent Klingon.
Just to mess with her—but also because it’s an amazing song—I lock eyes with Madison and belt out the chorus to “The Giver” at full volume.
“Oh my God. Oh my GOD.” Madison covers her face. “Please tell me you don’t actually know what—”
“Madison, I’m thirty-eight, not dead. Also, I was in college once.”
“MOOOOOM!” She’s practically climbing out the window. “Ew ew ew ew ew!”
I turn the volume down slightly, grinning at her mortification. There’s something unexpectedly liberating about shocking my teenager, about being seen as something more than just “Mom.”
“Okay, changing the subject forever,” Madison says. She studies me as I pull into Chloe’s driveway. “So. You really like this guy, huh?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You always say that.” She grabs her bag but doesn’t get out yet. “Just…try to have fun tonight? Without overthinking everything?”
“I don’t overthink—”
She gives me a look that’s pure fifteen-year-old superiority. “Mom. You pre-plan your grocery lists. In order of store layout.”
“That’s being efficient.”
“That’s overthinking.” She opens the door. “Don’t be efficient tonight. Just be…you. The you who knows all the words to ‘The Giver’.”
“Madison—”
“Love you! Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” She practically runs to Chloe’s door, leaving me sitting there with my face burning.
My fifteen-year-old just gave me dating advice.
And used Chappell Roan to do it.
God help me.
8:24. Six minutes to get to Giuseppe’s. Six minutes to figure out what the hell I’m doing. Six minutes to talk myself into—or out of—whatever is happening between Jack and me.
My phone buzzes.
Jack: Running few minutes late. Got caught with a late call. Be there by 8:40. Sorry!
Me: No problem. I'll grab us a table.
Another buzz.
Troy: Madison says you have plans tonight. Must be nice to have free time. We need to discuss her college fund. Etherum is up and I have thoughts.
Delete.
The passive-aggressive jab is typical Troy. During our marriage, he’d mastered the art of making me feel guilty for every moment not devoted to him or Madison. A girls’ night out? Selfish. A professional conference? Unnecessary. His free time was essential; mine was indulgent.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. The dress is probably too much. The heels definitely are. What was I thinking? This isn’t even a real date. It’s just two coworkers grabbing dinner after I used him as a human shield against Cameron.
My phone buzzes again.
Maria: I bet that boy cleans up NICE. Have fun tonight! ??
Great. The entire hospital’s probably betting on how this goes.
I arrive at Giuseppe’s fifteen minutes early, suddenly self-conscious about everything—my dress, my hair, the fact that I’m here at all. The hostess gives me a knowing smile when I ask for “a nice table for two, please.” She leads me to a corner booth with a small candle flickering in the center.
“Date night?” she asks, setting down menus.
“Just dinner,” I reply automatically, then catch myself. “I mean, yes. I suppose it is.”
“I’ll bring water for both of you,” she says with a wink. “And our wine list?”
“Please.”
8:39. I’m sitting in Giuseppe’s at a corner table, watching the door like a teenager. The waiter’s already asked twice if I’m ready to order.
I ask him to give me a minute, I’m waiting for one more. Madison’s words echo as I fiddle with the menu. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time to stop being so careful, so controlled, so calculated, so…