Chapter Thirty-Eight The Perfect Date
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Perfect Date
Hayes
My tie’s crooked. I’ve retied it four times, and it’s still crooked.
“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Maddie observes from my bed, where she’s sprawled out with her Nintendo Switch.
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t look up from her game. “Is this about the girl?”
I pause, my hands still on the tie. “What girl?”
“The one you’ve been moping about for like, forever. Frankie, right?”
How does an eight-year-old know about my love life?
“I haven’t been moping.”
“You totally have. Dad said you’ve been weird since Uncle Charles died.”
My chest tightens. Even Maddie noticed.
“And now you’re wearing your fancy tie and that cologne that makes you smell like a magazine.”
I glance down at my outfit. Navy button-down, dark jeans, my favorite sport coat. Dressy but not overdone. The cologne she’s talking about is the same one I wore in France.
“It’s just dinner.”
“With the girl.”
“With Francesca, yes.”
Maddie finally looks up, grinning like she knows something I don’t. “Are you nervous?”
“Why would I be nervous?”
“Because you like her.”
When did my baby sister become a relationship expert?
“It’s complicated.”
“How?”
I sit on the edge of the bed, giving up on the tie. “We used to . . . We worked together. Sort of. And then Uncle Charles died, and things got messy.”
Maddie sets down her Switch, suddenly serious. “I miss Uncle Charles.”
“Me, too, kid.”
“He was funny. Remember when he taught me that card trick?”
I smile despite myself. “You mean when he let you win at poker and told you it was magic?”
“That wasn’t magic?”
“Definitely not magic.”
Maddie processes this betrayal for a moment. “I still liked it.”
“He would have liked that you liked it.”
We sit in comfortable silence. Maddie picks at the comforter while I stare at my reflection in the mirror across the room.
“Hayes?”
“Yeah?”
“If Uncle Charles liked Frankie, she must be pretty cool.”
My throat gets tight. “Yeah. She is.”
“So why are you scared?”
The question lands like a punch. Because that’s exactly what I am. Terrified.
“What if I mess it up again?”
“Then you’ll say sorry and try harder.”
Eight years old and already wiser than me.
“What if she doesn’t want to try again?”
Maddie shrugs. “Then at least you’ll know.”
Simple. Direct. Logical.
Why can’t I think like an eight-year-old?
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Malachi.
Malachi: Good luck tonight. Try not to completely screw this up. Again.
Helpful, as always.
I stand up and check my reflection one more time. The tie’s still crooked, so I decide to remove it. Maybe that’s not the worst thing. Maybe perfect isn’t what Frankie needs from me.
“Wish me luck,” I tell Maddie.
“You don’t need luck. You just need to not be stupid.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She’s already back to her game. “Oh, and Hayes?”
“What?”
“Bring her candy. Girls like candy.”
An hour later, I’m standing outside Frankie’s apartment building with a bag from Dottie’s Candy Bar and my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is insane. I’ve negotiated billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. I’ve given presentations to boards of directors who could destroy my career with a phone call.
But the thought of Frankie opening her door makes my palms sweat.
I press the buzzer for apartment 4B.
“Hello?” Her voice crackles through the intercom.
“It’s me.”
“Hayes?”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
A pause. “I’ll be right down.”
Five minutes later, the lobby door opens and my brain short-circuits.
She’s wearing jeans that hug her curves and a soft green sweater that makes her eyes look like sea glass. Her hair’s down, curling around her shoulders, and she’s got on just enough makeup to make her lips look like they’re begging to be kissed.
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long.
“You look . . .” I clear my throat. “Good. You look good.”
“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”
She’s nervous. I can tell by the way her fingers toy with the strap of her purse, twisting it in slow, anxious loops.
Good. I’m not the only one affected here.
“This is for you.” I hand her the candy bag.
Her eyebrows lift. “Candy?”
“My sister said girls like candy.”
“Your sister’s eight.”
“Your point?”
Frankie opens the bag and peers inside. Her face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.
“Holy shit, Swedish Fish?”
“Among other things.”
“I haven’t had Swedish Fish in forever.” She pulls out the package and hugs it to her chest. “This is better than flowers.”
“That’s what I was hoping for.”
She looks up at me, and for a second her walls drop completely. I see the girl who used to eat gas station snacks and name Wi-Fi networks after terrible puns.
“So,” she says, closing the bag carefully. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How would you know?”
“Because you spent months traveling with Charles, never knowing where you’d wake up. And you loved every minute of it.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. Point to me.
My car’s waiting at the curb. A black Tesla, because I didn’t want to hire a driver tonight. I wanted her all to myself without anyone eavesdropping.
“Nice ride,” she says as I open her door.
“Thanks.”
I programmed the GPS this morning, double-checked the route, called ahead to confirm reservations. I have everything planned down to the minute.
Except for the traffic jam on the FDR that adds forty minutes to our drive.
“Where exactly are we going?” Frankie asks as we crawl through Midtown.
“Patience.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
She huffs and opens her Swedish Fish, popping one in her mouth. The smell fills the car—artificial cherry and childhood memories.
“Want one?”
“I’m good.”
“More for me.”
We inch forward another few feet. At this rate, we’ll miss our reservation entirely.
“You’re stressed,” Frankie observes.
“I’m fine.”
“Your jaw’s doing that ticcing thing.”
I consciously relax my face. “What ticcing thing?”
“The thing where you clench your teeth when you’re trying not to lose your shit.”
She knows me too well.
“Traffic happens. It’s fine.”
“Hayes.”
I glance over at her. She’s studying me with those sharp green eyes that see everything.
“It’s okay if this isn’t perfect.”
“It should be perfect.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.” The words come out harder than I intended. “I messed up before. I ran away like a coward and hurt you. The least I can do is plan one decent evening.”
Frankie goes quiet. We crawl forward another block.
“You know what I remember about our time in France?” she says finally.
“What?”
“The mistakes. The times things went wrong and we figured it out together.” She shifts in her seat to face me. “Like when you couldn’t work the washing machine. Or when I got seasick and you gave me motion sickness pills.”
“Those weren’t exactly romantic moments.”
“Maybe not. But they were real.”
The GPS announces we’ve arrived at our destination. I look around, confused. We’re in front of a random office building in Midtown.
“Recalculating route,” the GPS chirps helpfully.
Frankie starts laughing.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“I had everything planned.”
“Plans change.”
I pull over and grab my phone, frantically searching for the restaurant’s actual address. Frankie reaches over and gently takes the phone from my hands.
“Hayes.”
“What?”
“Where did you want to take me?”
“There’s this place in Brooklyn. They make gourmet versions of junk food. Mac and cheese burgers, truffle fries, milkshakes with cereal mixed in.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“I thought . . . I wanted to take you somewhere that felt like you. Not some stuffy place with tiny portions and wines with names we can’t pronounce.”
“You researched junk food restaurants.”
“I may have done some research, yes.”
She’s staring at me like I just told her I built her a rocket ship.
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“Taking you to eat overpriced burgers?”
“No.” She leans over and kisses my cheek. Soft. Quick. “Listening.”
My skin burns where her lips touched.
“So,” she says, settling back in her seat. “Brooklyn?”
“Brooklyn.”
I restart the GPS, and this time it actually knows where it’s going.
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in a tiny restaurant called Elevated Comfort, sharing a plate of mac and cheese spring rolls and trying not to stare at each other.
“This is incredible,” Frankie says around a bite of what might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Worth the detour?”
“Absolutely.”
The restaurant’s packed and loud, nothing like the places I usually take women. But watching Frankie light up over deep-fried comfort food makes me realize I’ve been doing everything wrong for years.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Shoot.”
“Why now? Why tonight?”
I set down my fork. “Because I’ve been miserable without you.”
“That’s not a reason to date someone.”
“It’s not the only reason.”
“What are the other reasons?”
Of course she’s not making this easy.
“Because you make me laugh. Because you called my mother on her bullshit at that party and somehow made her like you anyway. Because you held Charles’s hand when he was dying and didn’t let him go alone.”
Her eyes get suspiciously bright.
“Because,” I continue, “I spent two months trying to forget you and failing spectacularly. Because every woman I meet is boring compared to you. Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
“Well that’s . . . inconvenient.”
I laugh despite myself. “Inconvenient?”
“Well, it is. I just got my life back together. I have a business to run, goals to achieve. I can’t afford to get distracted by some emotionally unavailable billionaire with commitment issues.”
“What if I’m not emotionally unavailable anymore?”
“Are you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
She considers this, twirling pasta around her fork. “What about the commitment issues?”
“Working on those too.”
“How?”
“Therapy. Lots of therapy. Turns out growing up with parents who treated marriage like a blood sport left me with some baggage.”
“Shocking.”
“I know, right?” I lean forward. “I also learned that running away when things get scary is a defense mechanism I developed to protect myself from getting hurt.”
“And?”
“And I’m done running.”
Frankie sets down her fork. “Hayes.”
“I’m serious, Frankie. I want this. I want to see where this could go.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“What if it does?”
We stare at each other across the small table. The restaurant noise fades into background buzz.
“I missed you too,” she whispers finally.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I missed your terrible morning hair and the way you drink coffee like it personally offended you. I missed arguing with you about stupid things.”
“My hair isn’t terrible.”
“It’s pretty terrible.”
“Anything else you missed?”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Maybe a few things.”
The air between us shifts. Charges. Like right before lightning strikes.
“Frankie.”
“What?”
“Can I take you home?”
She meets my eyes. “Which home?”
“Mine.”
The single word carries enough heat to melt steel.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “You can take me home.”
I signal for the check with probably more urgency than necessary.
This time, traffic can go fuck itself.