Chapter 11
OUR FIRST REAL DATE
SIMONE
It’s barely dark when I ring the bell, but the sky already has that smoked-glass look, the kind that makes street lamps seem like they’re underwater.
I’m clutching a salad from Trader Joe’s, a bottle of wine Andie said was “actually not that bad,” and the keys to my own nervous system, which is currently firing in every direction.
I almost don’t recognize the house at first—Liam’s block is all stately old bricks, with postage stamp yards and hedges trimmed into strict compliance—but his is different.
Modern, but not gross about it. No dumb lawn art, just tall windows and a black-painted door that makes it look like it swallows light for fun.
I take a deep breath and collect myself. Hair neat? Check. Lipstick glossy? Check check. My mind in place? Sadly, no check.
The door opens before I can knock. He’s right there, in a crisp white button-down and jeans that are just this side of formal.
For a second, I’m sure he’ll try to make a joke—maybe about my “fancy” salad, or how I look in my slinky blue dress, or that my arms are already cold even though it’s barely October.
But he just stands there, takes me in like he’s memorizing the moment.
“Come in,” he says. The words are simple, but the tone is not.
I step inside, and the air changes immediately.
There’s music, low and jazzy—one of those playlists that says “effortless” but took three hours to curate.
The lights are dim except for candles on the dining table.
I catch a whiff of garlic and herbs and something deeper, like caramelizing onions or a secret ingredient he’s not going to tell me about until after I’ve guessed wrong three times.
I set my offerings on the kitchen island.
There are so many books in this house I feel like I’ve wandered into a library’s secret after-dark party.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves in the living room, coffee table stacked with hardcovers, even a teetering pile on the stairs.
The only thing more obvious than his taste for literature is the fact that everything else is so intentionally minimal—gray velvet sofa, heavy wooden dining table, no art on the walls except for one brutalist painting over the fireplace.
If there’s a single throw pillow in the entire house, it’s hiding in shame.
He takes my coat, hangs it up, and stands behind me for a second too long. I feel the warmth of his hands even after he’s stepped away. “Wine?” he says.
“Yes please. If that’s not a cliché,” I add, giving him a pointed look.
“Clichés exist for a reason,” he says, and he’s so close to smiling I feel warmth start in the tips of my toes.
He pours, hands steady, and I watch the little trickle swirl around the bottom of my glass.
We’re both pretending this is normal, that I’m just another adult at a dinner party and not a curvy co-ed who really shouldn’t be here.
He gestures toward the living room, but I stop him.
“Smells amazing,” I say. “What’s for dinner?”
He gives me a half-bow. “Chicken in white wine sauce. I even looked up a gluten-free recipe for the pasta, just in case.”
“You’re spoiling me,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow. “Maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”
We sit. The table is set with actual napkins, not the paper kind. There’s a little dish of olives, a platter of sliced cheese, and he’s even bothered to light votive candles in these heavy glass holders.
For the first minute, we just eat. It is—okay, I don’t want to admit this, but it’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
The sauce is rich and buttery, the chicken cut in perfect, blushing-pink slices.
I wonder if he practiced this meal a few times before tonight.
I want to tease him about it, but the look on his face is not one of a man who wants to be roasted for his chicken.
He waits until I’m halfway through a bite before asking, “How’s school?”
I nearly choke. “It’s good. I mean, you’d know better than anyone.” I regret it as soon as I say it. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make it weird.”
He shakes his head, slow. “You didn’t.”
There’s a pause, but not the uncomfortable kind. I notice how the candlelight plays with the bones of his face, how his sleeves are rolled up just enough to show his muscled forearms. His hands are beautiful and strong, fingers tapered like he could palm a basketball but also write a sonnet.
I decide to go for it. “So, Liam,” I say, and he looks up, startled at the sound of his own name. “You said you haven’t been with anyone since the divorce. When was that?”
He swallows, then shrugs. “Five years ago, six almost. I haven’t been in a real relationship since, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I cock my head at him.
“No relationships? Really?”
He shakes his dark head, blue eyes glinting.
“Nope. But no, I haven’t been celibate either. That would be—” He winces, shakes his head. “Let’s just say it’s been a long time since I had anything somewhat serious. The rest was just passing time.”
I nod, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “So, what, you’ve just been seeing an AI chatbot for a girlfriend? Or are you on, like, secret professor Tinder?”
He nearly laughs. “Jesus, no. My department would run a background check if I even tried to sign up for one of those. Most of the time, I’m just here. Books and meetings and maybe the gym if I’m feeling alive.”
I tilt my head, waiting for more.
“There was someone,” he says, voice going soft. “Last year. It didn’t work. We had nothing in common.” He looks at me, dead in the eyes. “I think I was just trying to prove I could still feel something.”
I’m not sure what to do with my hands, so I fold them in my lap. “Was it Claire?”
He gives a tiny nod, but there’s no drama in it. “Yes. She’s very different from you.” He pauses. “From me, too.”
I roll the stem of my glass between two fingers. “You want to talk about it?”
He shrugs, which is apparently his default setting. “There’s not much to say. Claire’s smart, driven, good at what she does. But we were just missing that spark.” He glances up. “The kind of spark that gets you called into the Dean’s office if you’re not careful.”
I want to laugh, but the mood is heavier now. He looks, for a second, like he might actually apologize for the way things started between us.
Instead, he says, “I’m not good at this, Simone. I want to be. I just don’t want to screw up again.”
He reaches for his glass, and our fingers brush. The contact is so brief, so accidental, but it feels like a spark plug arcing across skin.
“I’m not either,” I say. “But I want to try. With you.”
We eat more. The conversation wanders, then doubles back on itself.
I tell him about Andie’s failed attempt at baking gluten-free brownies (the batter exploded in the microwave), and he tells me about his old roommate, who once took a full pepperoni pizza into the shower “for science.” We trade stories, not because we have to, but because it’s actually fun.
Between bites, our eyes keep meeting. Sometimes we look away at the same time and pretend it’s not a game.
After a while, he leans back and runs a hand through his hair, which is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. “You’re nothing like I imagined,” he says, the words almost a whisper.
I decide to risk it. “What did you imagine?”
He holds my gaze. “I didn’t think I’d ever care this much again.”
The words are a fire alarm in my chest, but I try to play it off. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.” He smiles, finally, and the room goes a degree brighter.
We finish the salad and what’s left of the wine. The candles are burning low, and there’s nowhere to hide from the gravity pulling us together.
He stands, collects the dishes, and when he comes around the table, he offers me his hand. I take it, pulse jittery. He pulls me to my feet, and we stand there for a second, facing each other.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” he says, voice low. “But if I don’t kiss you right now, I might actually die.”
I laugh, and he does too, and then we’re kissing, slow and hot and full of the promise of all the things we haven’t said yet. His arms go around my waist, and I’m melting, melting, melting.
For a second, the whole world is just breath and skin and need.
When we break apart, he brushes a thumb across my cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, and I don’t even try to answer, because it would just sound like static in my ears.
The music is still playing, the candles still burning, but the real story is in the way his hands hold me. Gentle at first, then with more need. My body already knows what’s coming, and I want it, bad.
But I don’t want to rush it. Not this time.
We stand there, arms around each other, as if the rest of the night could wait forever.
But it can’t.
Not with him.
Not with us.
We end up on the sofa, wineglasses in hand, the last of the light sliding off the big windows like it’s embarrassed to intrude. The music’s softer now, just a shadow of piano and upright bass, the kind of thing that makes you want to talk about everything and nothing at once.
I tuck my feet under me, careful not to flash my panties unless I mean to, and face Liam full-on.
He’s settled back, arm draped on the cushion behind me, but the angle of his body is totally locked in.
He’s not playing it cool—he’s devouring me with his eyes, and it’s almost too much to meet his stare.
“So,” I say, swirling the wine and hoping I look casual. “Were you happy? In your marriage, I mean.”
He laughs, but it’s not mean. “That’s a loaded question.”
“I’m an English major,” I remind him. “I have to ask the loaded ones.”