Chapter 9 Post-Date Debrief
Post-Date Debrief
Harper
Maddie’s practically glowing as she starts the engine of her BMW, humming something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like the song that was playing when Sirus leaned in to whisper something in her ear during dessert.
“See?” she says as we pull out of the parking lot. “That wasn’t all bad, was it?”
I give her what I hope is a noncommittal shrug. “You had fun. That was the point, right?”
Maddie shoots me a look that clearly says I’m not getting off that easy. “Don’t deflect. I saw you two sneak outside together. And you were smiling.”
“I smile sometimes. It’s a normal human expression.” I force a smile to show her.
“Harper, you smiled at a guy. On a date. That’s like spotting a unicorn in the wild.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips at the memory of Cole’s half-smile when I made that joke about his jacket. The way he looked at me like I’d said something genuinely funny instead of just politely amusing.
“He’s cute, he’s polite, he didn’t spend the entire evening staring at your chest,” Maddie continues, ticking off points on her fingers while we wait at a red light. “In today’s dating world, that’s basically finding a unicorn that also does your taxes.”
“Bare minimum behavior isn’t a love story, Mads.”
But even as I say it, I can’t help but think about Cole’s steady gaze when I was talking about college and freelancing, the way he handed over his jacket without making it feel like some grand romantic gesture. Just thoughtful. Natural.
Here I go romanticizing things again. Maybe I’m overthinking it.
The streetlights flash through the windshield as Maddie merges into traffic, creating a kaleidoscope of shadows across the dashboard. She’s in full interrogation mode now, which means I’m not getting out of this car without a thorough debrief.
“So?” she prompts. “First impressions?”
I stare out the window at the familiar city blocks sliding past. “He’s... fine.”
Maddie snorts, a sound that’s somehow both elegant and completely undignified. “Fine means you didn’t think it was completely awful but you’re too scared to admit I might actually be right about something.”
She’s not wrong, which is annoying. I was prepared to hate tonight, armed with a dozen reasons why this was a terrible idea and why I should have stayed home with my books. What I wasn’t prepared for was Cole. He was nice. Actually nice, not perform-for-the-audience nice.
My mind flashes, uninvited, to Liam. He’s hot, reckless, and the kind of magnetic energy that pulls you in before you realize you’re drowning.
Cole’s presence had been different. Calm, observant, deliberate.
The kind of man who doesn’t need to fill every silence with a joke or a flirtatious comment.
I hate that I notice the difference. I hate that I’m comparing them at all.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. He was just Maddie’s setup charity case. One evening of being polite to your cousin’s friend’s wingman doesn’t mean anything.
“And Cole clearly liked you,” Maddie continues, apparently unaware of my internal crisis. “He was watching you when you talked. Not in a creepy way,” she adds quickly, “but like he was actually listening.”
“He was being polite.”
“Harper, I’ve been on enough dates to know the difference between polite and interested. Trust me, that was interested.”
I fold my arms across my chest, partly against the car’s air conditioning and partly in defense against Maddie’s relentless optimism. “Even if he was interested, so what? I’m not looking for anything right now.”
Maddie glances at me as we stop at another red light, her expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. “You’re not looking for anything... or you’re not looking for something safe?”
The question hits closer to home than I want to admit. “Safe is boring.”
“But boring doesn’t break your heart.”
There it is. The truth neither of us wants to say out loud.
That my last relationship left me gun-shy and overthinking every interaction with anyone who might be genuinely interested in getting to know me.
That maybe I gravitated toward Liam precisely because he felt like the kind of mistake that couldn’t touch the parts of me I’m trying to protect.
We pull into our building’s parking lot, and Maddie’s still buzzing with post-date energy while I’m suddenly exhausted. The evening feels like it lasted about six hours longer than it actually did, packed with more emotional complexity than a simple dinner should contain.
As we climb the stairs to our floor, Maddie says quietly, “Just... think about it, okay? Liam? Easy lay, forgettable. Cole? Polite and interested. He’s genuine, Harp. I have a good feeling about this.”
My chest tightens about her comment towards Liam.
Is he forgettable? Because I haven’t forgotten anything about that night, and maybe that’s my problem.
In our dorm, I change into my most comfortable pajamas and crawl into bed with every intention of going straight to sleep. Tomorrow is Saturday, which means I can sleep in and pretend tonight never happened.
But my brain has other plans.
I stare at the ceiling, replaying fragments of the evening.
Cole’s genuine laugh when I told the raccoon story.
The way he asked follow-up questions about my life like he actually cared about the answers.
How his jacket smelled like cedar and something clean and masculine that I didn’t want to give back.
And underneath it all, like a song I can’t get out of my head, the memory of Liam’s voice saying my name in the dark of his apartment.
I flip onto my side, then onto my stomach, trying to find a position that will let my brain shut up and let me sleep. It doesn’t work. If anything, the memories get louder, more insistent.
This is ridiculous. It was one night. One really good night, but still just one night. With a guy who probably doesn’t even remember my name.
But my hands are already reaching for my phone before I can stop them.
I open Instagram, telling myself I’m just going to scroll mindlessly until I get tired. But somehow my fingers type “Liam Murphy” into the search bar, and before I can think better of it, I’m looking at his profile.
His most recent post is from yesterday. It’s a photo after practice with only three other guys I don’t recognize, everyone grinning and sweaty and looking like they just conquered the world. Liam’s to the right, that familiar cocky smile on his face, and my stupid heart does a little flip.
I scroll down, past more hockey photos, past pictures with friends I don’t recognize, past what looks like a very expensive vacation from last summer.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for, exactly.
Proof that he’s exactly the player Maddie warned me about?
Evidence that our night together meant as little to him as it’s supposed to mean to me?
And then I somehow accidentally double-tap on a photo from over a year ago. A picture of him at what looks like a lake house. He’s tan and shirtless and living his best life.
The little heart appears on the screen, and my stomach drops to the earth’s core.
“Shit,” I whisper to my empty room. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I unlike it immediately, but the damage is done. There’s no taking back a like on a year-old photo. That’s basically the digital equivalent of showing up at someone’s house with a full marching band and a sign that says, “I’VE BEEN STALKING YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA.”
I throw my phone on my lap like it’s on fire and try to breathe.
Now I’m definitely not sleeping.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to decide which is more mortifying. The fact that I just accidentally announced to Liam Murphy that I’ve been creeping on his Instagram, or the fact that I was creeping on his Instagram in the first place.
And underneath the mortification is something worse. Maybe he’ll see my name and reach out to me. Maybe not giving him my last name can’t be his excuse anymore.
I press my palms into my eyes, trying to stop the traitorous thoughts from spiraling out of control. The worst part is that I just hope he notices me.