Chapter 18
18
Amelia
Monday is the longest day there ever was and the only thing that keeps me going is knowing I have a date with Gage tonight. Dinner at some unknown-to-me restaurant because apparently, he enjoys torturing women who require at least twelve hours’ notice to emotionally prepare and mentally rehearse every possible conversation scenario.
He didn’t stay at my place after we had sex on Saturday night because he had to get home to Luna. But he did make sure to fuck me again in the shower before he left. I think I’ve already replayed every second of the sex we had that night 10,735,307 times.
Last night, he called after Sarah went to bed, and we talked for nearly three hours. He spent a lot of the conversation finding out everything he could about me. I managed to discover only a few things about him. He practices MMA to keep his head clear, hikes mountains like it’s no big deal, golfs for fun, loves fishing and skiing, and probably chops wood shirtless. I’m honestly starting to think he’s a wilderness sex fantasy in billionaire clothing. And considering I think rage-cleaning my kitchen counts as cardio, this is going to be a very balanced relationship.
Monday’s a blur of legal drama, PR strategizing with Marin, and a half-hearted attempt at the indie film score. My brothers blow up the group chat about Gage, and I refuse to open the texts. Mostly, I try not to obsess all day over my date tonight.
I’m running on fumes by the time I pick Sarah up from school, and god help me, she’s channeling peak teen drama energy. Argumentative. Dramatic sighs for days. Exactly what I don’t have the capacity for.
All I wanted was an easy afternoon. To help her with her homework, drop her at James’s by five, and then come home and get ready. Light a candle. Overthink my lipstick choice. Rehearse exactly how to say, “Hi” like a normal person. But no. Of course not. That would’ve been too easy for the Monday gods.
We survive the homework. Just.
Then, we pack her bag for the night. She loses it over glitter shoes we can’t locate and throws herself on the bed, refusing to move until I find them. Cue a frantic condo-wide search that eats fifteen minutes of my already-limited date prep time.
James texts during the search, bailing on me. He now has to work tonight. Cue a fresh wave of panic, because I have to find a babysitter on zero notice while my daughter sobs over not seeing her father.
Which means I have to do the thing I’ve been avoiding all day: enter the group chat with my brothers.
Me:
Okay fine. I need one of you to take Sarah tonight.
Tim:
WELL WELL WELL
Tim:
Look who remembered she has siblings.
Colin:
Is everything okay?
Me:
James bailed. I’m running behind. I haven’t showered. Sarah just staged a protest over footwear. I’m dying.
Tim:
She’s spiraling. I knew it. I said three hours ago she was on the edge.
Me:
Are you free or not??
Tim:
I mean, I was going on a date. But…
Colin:
Sorry, I’ve got work I’ve gotta do tonight.
Me:
Tim.
Tim:
Say it.
Me:
You’re the best brother alive and I owe you my soul.
Tim:
There it is. I’ll be there in an hour.
Colin:
I’ll do school drop-off tomorrow.
Me:
Colin, you are a gift from the heavens.
Tim:
Okay, rude. I’m the one canceling on hot girl summer over here.
Me:
You were going to the same bar you always go to on a Monday and ordering the same beer you always order.
Tim:
Unnecessary.
After I tell Sarah that she’s going to stay with her uncle tonight, I get exactly ninety seconds of peace before she walks out in her “Future Career Day” costume. The one she’s supposed to wear tomorrow. The one I’ve kept in perfect condition, bagged, and labeled so nothing could go wrong.
She’s dressed as a vet-slash-pop-star, which, according to her, required a white lab coat covered in glitter, a microphone, and a stethoscope.
She twirls like she’s in a Broadway audition. “I want to show Uncle Tim!”
“No,” I say calmly, like I have energy for calm. “Take it off. We’ll pack it and you can show him tomorrow morning when you get dressed for school.”
She refuses. I argue. She argues louder. And then?—
RIP.
She yanks the costume off like a feral little tornado and tears the sleeve clean down the seam.
I let out a sound that might actually have been a growl. Or a scream. Or maybe just my soul trying to exit my body through my throat.
And then I do what any emotionally regulated, high-functioning woman would do: I dig out the sewing kit with shaking hands and start stitching like I’m defusing a glitter-covered bomb.
At six o’clock, Sarah’s finally watching cartoons, the costume is patched, and I’m in the shower trying to wash the day off. I’ve got exactly one hour until Gage arrives.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I definitely didn’t need time to light a candle or sit cross-legged on my bed and visualize my best-case dinner scenario like a lunatic. I’m totally chill. Very zen. Practically floating.
By 6:30, I’m wrapped in a towel, staring at myself in the mirror like I’ve never had a face before.
Red lipstick? Too much.
Gloss? Too casual.
Red? Sexy. Confident. Dangerously close to trying too hard.
Gloss? Effortless. Barely-trying. Possibly boring.
I hold both up like I’m consulting a jury. “What do you think?”
Sarah appears in my bedroom doorway and walks into the room holding her stomach. “I don’t feel?—”
And then she vomits.
All over my bed.
All over the dress I just laid out.
All over the last shred of sanity I was clinging to.
I stand there for a solid five seconds, staring at the dress that is now aggressively dead. Sarah’s crying. My hair is still wet. I’m somehow freezing and sweating. And I’m supposed to be seducing a man in less than an hour.
I contemplate grabbing a towel and blotting at the crime scene like that would fix the situation, but Sarah needs me, so I shift gears.
I clean her up, tuck her into a blanket on the couch with a bowl in case round two happens, and give her mommy hugs until she’s okay. She snuggles in like it’s just another Monday and not the final act of my personal apocalypse.
I walk back into the bedroom, stare at the vomit-covered dress again, and release a breath I’ve apparently been holding for six years.
That’s when my phone buzzes with a text.
I hesitate.
I haven’t checked my messages since I sent out the sibling distress signal, and frankly, I’m not sure I’m emotionally stable enough to witness whatever Tim has decided to contribute to the situation. But at this point, what else could possibly go wrong?
The dress is dead. The child is sticky. My grip on life is holding by a thread.
I check the screen, hoping, praying , for something mildly helpful.
I get Marin.
Marin:
Babes. Gentle reminder that I cleared my entire schedule for tonight’s DATE LIVESTREAM.
Me:
Livestream???
Marin:
Ummmm the verbal soft launch you did this morning when you casually mentioned mid-PR meeting that GAGE MOTHEREFFING BLACK is taking you to dinner??
Me:
Oh no.
Marin:
Oh YES. I am now spiritually handcuffed to this storyline. If you don’t live-text-me, I will dissolve into particles.
Marin:
I need: fit check. vibe report. pre-date emotional temp. makeup mood board. tension rating. All of it.
Me:
This feels like a lot of energy for someone not going on the date.
Marin:
Excuse you, I am going on this date. Spiritually. Emotionally. Existentially. Cosmically.
Marin:
Also? Venus is sextiling Mars, so if you don’t at least make out tonight, the planets will literally be offended. Don’t piss off the cosmos, babes.
Somewhere between my brothers live-commenting their way through my love life, James flaking, the glitter shoe crisis, the costume armageddon, the frantic sewing session that almost cost me a finger, my child barfing on my dress, and now Marin assigning herself a spiritual plus-one to my date, I lose the will to keep pretending I’m not one minor disaster away from full psychological collapse.
My elevator dings. Assuming it’s Tim, I head out to greet him, still wrapped in a towel, hair wet, dignity fully MIA.
Only it’s not Tim.
It’s Gage.
Wearing all black.
Black suit, black dress shirt, black shoes.
Looking like the solution to every fantasy I’ve ever denied having.
I freeze.
He keeps coming toward me.
All the way to me.
I forget how to exist.
Then, I speak.
Oh god, I speak .
“I’m so sorry. I swear I was going to be ready, but then James bailed and Sarah had a glitter shoe meltdown, and she tore her school costume for tomorrow because she had to show it to Tim tonight, and I had to sew it like I was auditioning for Project Runway , the breakdown edition, and then she threw up on my dress , which was the dress, like capital-D dress that I was going to seduce you in, and then Marin assigned herself as my spiritual chaperone after telling me Venus is sextiling Mars, which apparently means that if I don’t seduce you tonight, I will piss off the cosmos.” I stop talking long enough to breathe, and because my brain doesn’t get the memo that silence might be the smarter choice here, I just keep on babbling. “And now I’m still in a towel, my hair is wet, I haven’t chosen a lipstick, and I’m honestly starting to wonder if Marin was right, and I’ve pissed off Venus by not shaving my legs or spiritually preparing enough for this date.”
Gage’s eyes flash with amusement right before his hand curls around the back of my neck and he pulls me in for a kiss. Not a short kiss, not a long one, but just enough to wreck any ability I have left to think straight. That could also be thanks to his scent. Who knows at this point? Certainly not me.
When he lets me go, he says, “You’re a whole-ass situation, you know that?”
I was not expecting that. Nowhere close to that.
He grins when all I give him is nothing.
Then, he takes charge.
“Why don’t you go and get dressed, and I’ll go sit with Sarah and make sure she’s okay.”
“My dress is ruined, Gage, and I’m not sure I’m up to seducing you tonight.”
“Consider me seduced. A long fucking time ago. Put on whatever’s comfortable.”
I grip his suit jacket, needing to stay in this moment right here with him for longer than a second. “Thank you.” It’s a whisper, and only two words, but they carry the weight of an entire day, and the way he held it like it wasn’t too much.
A few minutes later, I’m in my bedroom finding something to wear when my elevator dings and I hear Tim talking with Gage. Leaving them to each other, I decide to follow Gage’s suggestion and opt for comfort. I put on my favorite soft black cashmere sweater and high-waisted jeans. No shapewear. No effort to smooth or sculpt. I towel-dry my hair one last time, then grab the blow dryer and run it through quickly. I pull my hair into a messy bun, and swipe on a little concealer and mascara. Just enough to say I showed up.
I’ve just finished applying the mascara when I receive a text from Tim. From my living room.
Tim:
I swear to God, if you don’t go on this date, I will ground you.
And for the first time today, I laugh.