THIRTY-TWO
Tom is waiting for me at Brookie’s. He stands when he sees me – an actual gentleman. Clean-shaven. Button-down shirt. Dimples. No neck tattoos. No earrings. A smile that suggests he’s the kind of man who flosses nightly and visits the dentist twice a year.
‘Jamie?’ he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek – warm, confident. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He gestures towards the seat. ‘I got us a booth. Hope that’s okay.’
It’s not, because I prefer the seats outside.
‘It’s perfect,’ I say. Let the show begin.
We sit. Menus are exchanged. We do that awkward first-date laugh and everything is so charming and polite that it feels closer to being slowly bludgeoned to death with a scented candle.
‘So,’ he says, leaning forward, elbows on the table in that I’mintentional-with-my-eye-contact way. ‘You said you’re looking to adopt a dog?’
Oh. Right. That was lie number one.
‘Yeah,’ I say, nodding enthusiastically. ‘Huge dog person.’
Another lie. My spirit animal is a chameleon.
He grins. ‘Any particular breed?’
I pause. Images flash in the back of my mind – dusty paws on a quad bike, warm brown eyes, fur the colour of midnight.
‘A kelpie,’ I blurt, before I can stop myself.
Tom’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Wow. Ambitious. They’re not for the faint-hearted.’
I lift my glass. ‘Neither am I.’
‘Kelpies need a lot of activity. Do you run?’
I nod again. Lie number three, but who’s counting?
‘All the time,’ I say, sipping my lychee martini. ‘There’s a run club not far from mine.’
He beams. ‘That’s great. Maybe we could go on a run sometime?’
‘Sure.’ I smile through the impending cardiovascular lie that’s about to be my future.
We make it through appetisers. He tells me he’s a vet, which I already knew from his profile. Not the ex-military kind, the fluffy- puppy kind. He once bottle-fed an injured koala and nursed a three-legged greyhound named Clara back to health. I should be melting inside.
Instead, I feel … nothing.
No spark. No ache. No gut-punching, organ-shuffling longing.
I sip my drink and smile when I’m supposed to and laugh enough to seem engaged. It’s all very respectable.
Eventually, Jodie appears beside us with the bill tucked neatly into a leather folder.
‘Hope you two had a lovely night,’ she says, sliding it between us with a wink that is supposed to be conspiratorial but feels closer to pressure. She’s seen me on enough dates for me to know she’s got a mental leaderboard going.
Tom doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the folder and slides his card in as if this isn’t even a conversation.
‘Thanks,’ I say, instinctively reaching for my wallet because I was raised right and have a pathological fear of being seen as a freeloader.
He shakes his head, smiling. ‘I’ve got it. You can get dinner next time.’
Next time.
It hangs there, soft and casual, maybe with teeth.
Once we’re outside, the air has cooled. A breeze scatters fallen maple leaves across the road, and the streetlights cast everything in that flattering golden blur that makes first dates feel more cinematic than they deserve.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he says.
Not asks. Says. He’s already decided and doesn’t think I’ll object. I don’t.
We walk in sync, which feels weirdly intimate, as if our bodies are coordinating even if our chemistry isn’t.
‘So,’ I say, slipping my hands into the pockets of my jacket. ‘Any siblings?’
He nods. ‘Two older sisters. Both terrifying in the best way. One’s a lawyer. The other runs marathons for fun and makes me feel like a couch potato.’
‘That sounds … wholesome.’
He laughs. ‘It is. Mostly. My parents are still together. High-school sweethearts, actually. It’s kind of disgusting.’
‘Wow. High-school sweethearts. That’s rare.’
He shrugs as if it’s nothing. As if growing up in a functioning nuclear family unit wasn’t the emotional equivalent of winning the lottery.
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘Family?’
I hesitate for half a second too long. ‘One sister. Issy. She’s great.
Parents are divorced.’
That’s it. That’s all I give him. No mention of the psychological debris field left in their wake.
Tom doesn’t push. He nods, politely recognising I’ve fulfilled the minimum honesty requirement for small talk.
When we reach my building, we stop. He smiles, hands in his pockets, body angled slightly away from mine as if he’s about to say goodnight.
For some reason, that stuns me.
I was expecting – what? A lean-in kiss? A hopeful ‘Can I come up?’ A suggestion of continuing this night in the realm of bad decisions and good lighting?
Instead, he stands there, a grown adult with healthy boundaries.
It’s jarring.
‘Do you want to come up?’ I ask, because apparently I’m incapable of letting go when I should, and even worse at holding on when it matters.
His eyebrows lift slightly. ‘Are you sure?’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
Because this is what you do, isn’t it?
You invite them in. You offer up your bed like it might soften the distance. You fill the quiet with physical closeness and hope it fools your body into forgetting that your heart hasn’t caught up.
Even if it feels closer to a routine than anything real.
Even if what you’re really doing is trying to overwrite a memory that refuses to leave.
You choose the guy who texts back. The one who makes dinner reservations and doesn’t tell you that you’re difficult. You pick stability. Sanity. Safety.
Even when it feels like eating toast when you’re starving for cake.
We kiss in the elevator. It’s pleasant. Textbook. No teeth. No tongue like a blender.
I lead him to the bedroom, and he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grab. Doesn’t mistake enthusiasm for entitlement.
His hands are soft. His mouth warm.
I close my eyes.
It’s not bad.
But halfway through, I find myself thinking of Luke.
Of callused hands and whispered swearing and the way he said my name as if it was a sentence he didn’t want to finish. Of how he looked at me like I wasn’t a body in a bed but a future he couldn’t name yet.
When it’s over, we’re tangled in sheets that don’t feel right. I turn away under the guise of adjusting the blanket, pressing my cheek into the pillow to smother the memory of a man who said that if I left, I shouldn’t come back … no matter how much I might want to.
Tom wraps an arm around me. Gentle. Easy. Thoughtful.
I want to scream.
Instead, I whisper, ‘Do you want water?’
Apparently, hospitality is my love language now.
I pad to the kitchen naked, pour two glasses, and lean against the counter while my body remembers things it shouldn’t. Things that didn’t happen here. That don’t belong here.
Tom falls asleep before I return.
I slide under the covers, hoping I haven’t betrayed myself.
I wonder if it’s possible to miss someone you told yourself you didn’t need.
If it’s possible to lie in a bed beside someone warm and kind and utterly the wrong shape—
And still feel cold.