Chapter 11
Sunday morning, I try to sleep in.
But the loud knocking on my door won’t let me.
I throw off the covers, pull on a giant oversized Colorado State hoodie over my shorts, plod downstairs, open the door, and
glare at Miles.
His eyes go wide. “I can’t believe you didn’t call and give me the first date breakdown. I waited up.”
I groan and walk over to the kitchen. I start a pot of coffee and pull out the lemon blueberry streusel cake I baked yesterday
after I got home from my ill-fated date.
A few hours later, I got a message from Roger on the app. It was a photo of him on the couch, holding a pint of ice cream
in one hand and making a thumbs-up with the other, and it made me smile.
It gave me a great first date horror story, and in the end, maybe some good will come of it. Maybe Roger will start to heal.
After I returned to the group, I found myself making excuses for poor Roger. After all, I’ve made some pretty stupid public
mistakes myself. We all agreed to cut him a little slack, then a woman named Trish told the entire group her worst breakup
horror story. Which led to a guy named Mike sharing his story on the way to the next pizza place, and by the time the tour
ended, we’d all chimed in.
I even shared the fountain story—but left out the night of the silver sequins. Some wounds are still a little too raw. Somehow,
it brought us all together.
The pain of rejection is a universal one.
“So?” Miles sits on the tall stool on the opposite side of my counter. “How was it?”
While I go over the events of the date, I cut a slice of cake, put it on a small plate, and slide it over to Miles without
even asking if he wants it. It’s payment, after all. A deal’s a deal.
Then I serve myself a piece and grab two forks. “It was quite the unforgettable first postdivorce date,” I say when the coffee
finishes brewing.
“Geez, Claire, I’m so sorry,” Miles says. “He seemed more stable than that.”
“I think he was just sad,” I say sympathetically. “And it ended up being fine. I had a great time once Roger was gone.”
At that, Miles laughs. “Single in the city, huh?”
I shrug. “Things could be worse than that, I suppose.”
“We’ll do better next time.”
“What about you?” I ask. “I’m sure you didn’t stay home alone last night.”
“Uh, no,” he says. “I went out with a lovely woman named Hailey.”
“Blond?” I quip.
“Redhead.”
“Ooh . . .”
“Took her home early. She was kind of . . .” He pulls a face. “She talked a lot about TikTok.”
“How old is this woman?” I pin him with a glare.
“You made this cake?” He makes a show of chewing his bite.
“Smooth change of subject,” I say with a pointed roll of my eyes. “And yes, I made it. It was my grandpa’s favorite. I used
to make it for him every Saturday night.”
“You two were close,” he says. A statement, not a question.
I nod. “He and my gram. They raised me.”
“And your parents?” Miles asks, and it occurs to me that he might be the first person I’ve met in a long time who seems more interested in getting to know me than finding reasons to criticize me.
“Uh, my mother was in prison when she had me,” I say plainly. “Never knew my dad.”
I find it’s easier to state those two things outright. Again, like jumping into a cold lake. Best not to emotionally connect
to it—it’s just a minor detail about my past.
His eyebrows shoot up, and he stops chewing. “Oh! Um . . .”
I nod. “Crazy, right?”
He swallows. “That’s heavy.”
I shrug. “It’s in the past. It was always in the past. Until I met John.”
“The ex,” Miles says.
“Yep.” I pause, thinking about him for a brief second. I feel the familiar hurt and anger start to bubble, so I move on. “His
family is really wealthy, like, really wealthy, and when they found out about my mom . . . it was an issue.”
“But you got married anyway?” He takes a drink. “He must’ve really loved you.”
“I was pregnant.”
“Oh.”
There’s a quiet pause, and I fill it by taking a drink of coffee. It feels good to be open about my past. It is what it is,
and I can’t change it. If it turns people off, then I suppose they aren’t my people.
But I’ll never find my people if I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. I learned that the hard way. I’m not sure if it was
a conscious decision to adopt this attitude or if it just happened when I opened the door to this new life, but here we are.
“Is your mom still . . . ?” He trails off, like he’s not sure how to ask such a personal question, which is appropriate because
I’m really not sure how to answer it.
I shrug. “We lost touch. After my grandparents died, it seemed like any hope of reconnecting died too.”
The lines in his forehead deepen in a frown. “That’s a lot—”
“I’m okay, really,” I say. “I had two loving parental figures in my life. They just had more gray hair than my friends’ parents.”
I smile, hoping my nonchalance puts Miles at ease.
His return smile seems tentative.
“So,” I say, ready to change the subject. “Since we’re dissecting my dates, I feel it’s only right we also dissect yours.”
“Uh, pass.”
“No, sorry,” I say. “You don’t get off that easy. Plus, I might be able to help you too, you know.”
“Nah, I’m good,” he says. “My system is working really well.”
I tilt my head and look at him. “Tell me you didn’t just say you have a system.”
He tips his fork at me. “Got it down to a science.”
I squint at him, trying to decide if he’s really as shallow as he wants me to think he is. “Don’t you get lonely?”
“I’m hardly ever alone,” he says.
I wince.
“Okay, not like that. I’m not out there sleeping with anyone who has a pulse. I just like to go out. Meet people. See the city.” He takes another
bite. “Did you hear me when I said this cake is amazing?”
I wave him off. “It’s just lemon cake.”
“Claire,” he says seriously.
“Miles.”
“It’s not just lemon cake. It’s like . . . an experience.”
I scoff.
“No, really,” he continues. “It’s like I’ve had this exact thing before, but not since I was a kid. This cake?” He points
to it with his fork. “This literally transports me back to summers in my backyard. We’d leave in the morning, play in the
neighborhood all day, and my parents would have no clue where we were or what we were doing.
We didn’t come back home until the streetlights came on, and there’d be a home-cooked meal and this cake.
Sometimes my mom would let us spread a big blanket on the trampoline and eat dinner there. Then my brother and I would swat
lightning bugs with one of those big plastic Wiffle ball bats.” He takes another bite.
I can’t help but smile. “Sounds perfect. Except for the bug killing.” I pause. “Only . . . we’d make jewelry out of them,
so I can’t really criticize.” I look at him. “You grew up in a small town too?”
He nods. “It’s about two hours from here.” A pause. “Nothing quite like summer in a small town.” He picks up the coffee mug.
“I feel sort of bad for people who only ever lived in the city. They don’t have a clue what they’re missing.”
I look down at my half-eaten cake, thinking about all the ways I miss my own small-town life.
It was simple. Not frivolous. Nothing we owned was new, or fancy, or brand name. And that old farmhouse was all I knew of
home.
Still, I always dreamed of living in Chicago and making Gram proud. After the way my mother disappointed her, I wanted to
give her that.
I still do.
But Miles is right. The people who’ve only ever lived in the city should experience a little bit of the magic of a small town
too.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.” And then after a pause, I add with a shrug, “Everything.”
“Like Roger?” He smirks at me, and I ball up a napkin and throw it at him. He catches it, though, because of course he does.
“I don’t even think you deserve cake after the terrible date you sent me on.”
He finishes the last bite and smiles up at me. “I promise the next one will be better.”
Guess I’m not cut out to be a barista.
First day, and I spilled coffee all over a guy who turned out to be a very important French diplomat or something.
I don’t remember much from my high school French class, but I do remember the swear words.
He used them all, and a few new ones I didn’t quite catch.
He was shouting that he was going to ruin the shop on social media and send the bill to me personally to replace his designer
suit because, and I quote, “Cette tache ne part pas, espèce d’idiot!”
Another learning experience? Maybe.
But I’m gutted. Completely humiliated and embarrassed. AGAIN.
First the date and now this. Getting fired from a job that a monkey could do.
I told Miles. He laughed.
Thought it was hilarious. Did an impression of the French diplomat that was spot-on considering he wasn’t even there.
But then he said, “Claire, that job was never going to make you happy.”
He’s right. But that’s not why I got that job. I got it because I need something to do with myself during the day.
Something that makes me so tired that I fall asleep before my brain can start spiraling.
I guess I’ll send out another round of résumés and see if anything new has shown up online . . .
And yep. I’m also preparing for date number two.
A guy named Scott.
Here’s hoping he’s better than Roger.
Then again, if Scott turned out to be a potted plant, it would be better than Roger.
Minnie: I heard about the job. Are you okay?
Claire: You heard?
Minnie: Miles told me. Said we had to make your next date extra special because you were down about it.
Claire: I don’t think I like you talking to him so much.
It’s weird.
Minnie: We’re not having conversations—just plotting for you. On the app, which you can read.
He’s a really nice guy.
Claire: If you lived here, he’d probably try to date you.
Minnie: I’m not the one who should date Miles.
Claire: I need a job.
Minnie: Smooth change of subject.
But seriously. You shouldn’t be working at a coffee shop anyway.
Claire: I’m not sure what I should be doing.
Minnie: You should bake.
Claire: I don’t think cookies will pay the bills.
Minnie: They might . . .
What I wouldn’t give for your oatmeal butterscotch cookies right now . . .
Claire: I could teach you how to make them . . .
Minnie: It’s not the same.
The day I get back, I’m expecting a whole plateful.
Claire: You got it. ??