Everett
Icradle my coffee mug in my hand, with the morning light shining through the kitchen window, leaning back in the chair, listening to the faint chirping of birds beyond the porch.
Mom moves around the kitchen, flipping pancakes and humming a tune I don’t recognize. “You’re quiet this morning,” she says without turning.
“Just thinking,” I admit.
She glances over her shoulder. “About the fundraiser?”
I nod. “Yeah, about everything.”
Dad shuffles in from the porch, his boots hitting the floor as he shakes them off. He pours himself a cup of coffee, gives Mom a kiss on the cheek, and sits across from me. We don’t speak right away.
Breakfast is a quiet ritual, the kind of moment that is supposed to be comfortable, but with Dad, they are always layered.
“I drove past the theater this morning,” he finally says, clearing his throat.
I take a sip of coffee. “Yeah?”
“There were a couple of older folks standing out front, talking about it, guessing what they think the first movie would be.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes on the steam rising from his mug.
I let the words settle. Small praise. Not an apology, not forgiveness. But it is more than I expected.
“Sounds like you pulled it off,” he says quietly.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He nods, then stands. “Heading into town. Be proud of what you did,” he says, and leaves.
Mom’s soft smile makes the tension in my shoulders ease a little. “That sounds promising.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Later, I am sitting on the theater steps, phone pressed to my ear, waiting for Riley to pick up. The front of the building is still buzzing faintly from the fundraiser. The leftover balloons swaying in the breeze and chalk drawings on the sidewalk.
Riley answers on the third ring.
“Well, well. Look who remembered he has friends,” he teases.
“Could never forget about you, busy week, but yeah, wanted to call,” I say.
“Busy saving a small town theater, I assume?” Riley asks.
“Something like that,” I admit.
“So? How did it go?” Riley asks.
“Incredible,” I say, leaning back against the railing. Telling him about the turnout, the music, the lawn games and food trucks, how the silent auction that Violet put together raised a lot of money to help with the theater, and how everyone has been talking about it since.
“Okay,” Riley says, whistling. “I’m impressed. So, the town loves you already.”
“They keep asking when the theater opens,” I say
“End of May still, right?” he asks.
“Yep, still not sure on an exact date, but I’ll let you know soon. Are you still planning on coming for the grand opening?”
“Oh, I’m coming. Absolutely,” he confirms.
Riley’s voice softens slightly, “And, what about the girl?”
I stiffen, running a hand through my hair. “I kissed her.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “At the fundraiser?” he asks.
“After the fundraiser, in her café a couple of days later.”
“And how do you feel about her?” he probes.
I glance at the empty street in front of me.
I think about her laugh, how she leaned on the counter when she teased me, how she told me she didn’t know if she could trust men again after her ex.
I thought about the way she listened when I talked about the theater, the way she believes in me and encourages me throughout the whole process.
“I really like her,” I say, my voice low. “More than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the first day I walked into the café.”
Riley groans. “You’re gone.”
“Not gone,” I say, smirking, “Just invested.”
“I asked her on a date, for tomorrow, I haven’t figured out what I want to do yet. I don’t want a restaurant. Everyone in town would watch us like we were in a fishbowl.”
Riley’s chuckle comes through the phone. “Simple solution, cook for her at her place.”
I blink. “At her apartment?”
“Yeah. Her home. She’ll be comfortable. Girls love it when a guy cooks for them.”
I thought about her, about her apartment, about the way she smiled at me when I teased her, the way she rolled her eyes at my jokes. Cooking for her at her place, it seems perfect.
I stare at my phone for a second after the call ended, Riley’s last words echoing in my head.
Girls love it when a guy cooks for them.
I slide the phone into my pocket and leaned back against the railing outside the theater, letting out a slow breath.
Cook for her.
When Riley said it, the idea sounded simple. Almost obvious.
Now that I am actually thinking about doing it, and this date is being planned, I feel nervous. Not the kind of nerves I used to get before a big production pitch. Those had always been easy to manage. I knew the game, knew how to talk my way through a room full of executives.
This is different. This date is a thousand times more important than any of those meetings.
I rub the back of my neck and look out at the street in front of the theater.
Lavender Creek is moving slowly this morning. A few cars roll past the café across the street. Someone walks their dog down the sidewalk. The town feels calm again after the chaos of the fundraiser.
I’ve barely made it halfway down Main Street before I pull my phone back out of my pocket. Cooking for her had sounded like a great idea five minutes ago. Now a new thought has crept in.
What if she hates the idea?
I stop at my truck and pause, I am just going to ask her, it’s simple. Except my thumbs hover over the keyboard for a good thirty seconds before I finally start typing
Me:
Hey, quick question…
Violet:
That sounds mysterious
I smile.
Me:
I just want to make sure I don’t overstep.
The dots appear.
Violet:
Now, I’m nervous
Me:
Don’t be. I was thinking about tomorrow night. I thought it might be nice to cook dinner for you, instead of going somewhere and worrying about running into townspeople.
Violet:
Everett, that’s a great idea! I love baking; I don’t mind cooking, but it’s not my favorite. So having you cook for me sounds great!
Me:
Awesome! Glad to hear it. I’ll plan everything. You don’t need to do anything other than sit there and sing my praises.
Violet:
I can do that. I also have to clean.
Me:
Don’t you dare. Your apartment is never messy. I’m not inspecting your place; I am coming over to cook and spend time with you.
Violet:
Fine. I just cleaned yesterday, anyway. But you remember how small my kitchen is?
Me:
I do, and I like it.
Violet:
Why?
Me:
Because I have an excuse to stand closer to you.
I stare at the screen for a second after sending that.
Violet:
Wow, look at you being smooth.
I shake my head, smiling.
Me:
Get used to it.
Violet:
I already am.
I am really looking forward to tomorrow.
Me:
Me too.
The grocery store sits at the edge of town, the same one my mom used to drag me to when I was a kid. On Friday’s, the bakery would give out free cookies to kids, and I always picked the biggest one on the tray like it was some kind of personal victory.
I grab a basket and walk into the produce section, scanning the shelves as I begin to build a plan in my head. Nothing too complicated. I don’t want to spend the whole night stressed about timing dishes or burning something.
Pasta. Garlic butter shrimp. A simple salad. And maybe something sweet.
Fresh basil and a couple of tomatoes drop into the basket.
Cooking had always been something I enjoyed. Back in LA, it had been one of the few things that forced me to slow down after long days on set or in endless meetings.
You can’t rush a good meal. You have to focus on it.
The thought of me cooking for Violet tonight makes me smile like an idiot standing in the middle of the produce aisle. Lemons next, then garlic, and a bottle of wine before heading toward the checkout.
If someone had told me two months ago that I’d be standing in a small town grocery store planning a dinner date with Violet Hartwell, I’d probably have laughed. I would never have thought that this would be my life. But I couldn’t be happier. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time I get back to my parents’ house, the kitchen counters are covered in grocery bags. My mom walks in just as I am unpacking everything.
She pauses in the doorway and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of food.”
“Yeah, I am going out tomorrow, but I’m cooking! I wanted to get everything today, so I wouldn’t be rushing tomorrow,” I say, putting the food away.
“Who are you cooking for?” Mom asks, and she smirks. I know she already knows the answer; she always told me that moms know everything.
“Violet,” I say, smiling.
“That’s really exciting, sweetie. I am so happy for you. She is such a sweet girl,” Mom says.
“Yeah, I feel lucky.”
My mom’s face softens. “Well,” she says, grabbing a glass from the cupboard, “she must be pretty special if you’re cooking for her.”
“Apparently, girls like that,” I add.
“We do,” Mom replies. “I’m glad you’re happy here, son.”
“Me too, Mom.”
Later that night I’m sitting on the porch steps with my phone in my hand, the sky slowly fading into a deep blue over the hills.
I open our conversation again before I can second-guess myself.
Me:
One more question.
A minute later.
Violet:
You ask a lot of questions.
Me:
Only important ones.
Violet:
Okay, what is the important question?
Me:
What’s your favorite kind of dessert?
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Violet:
Are you planning the entire dinner menu for tomorrow now?
Me:
Maybe
She sends a laughing emoji.
Violet:
Chocolate. Always chocolate.
Me:
Good choice.
A pause. Then another message from her.
Violet:
You’re making it very hard to be patient about tomorrow.
I smile at the screen.
Me:
Good.
Violet:
Good?
Me:
Means I’m doing something right.
There is another small pause before her next message.
Violet:
I am excited about tomorrow.
I looked out over the ranch, the soft glow of the porch lights flickering. My life feels simple and exciting.
Me:
Good night beautiful
Violet:
Good night, Everett.
I set my phone down beside me, a soft smile settling in. Tomorrow night suddenly feels like it can’t come soon enough.