Chapter 8
Gianna
Saturday morning started with Sam texting me at eight a.m.
Sam
Emergency brunch meeting. Don’t be late.
Gianna
It’s Saturday. Some of us sleep.
“Not today. We have that joint presentation due Monday and you have a DATE tonight. Time management, Gianna.”
He had a point. I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, trying to shake off the weird mix of nerves and anticipation that had been sitting in my stomach since that call.
Since Archie had called me drunk and vulnerable and asked me to dinner like it was the most important question in the world.
I’d been thinking about that call all week. About the way his voice had sounded—rough and honest and a little lost.
About the fact that he’d reached for me when he was falling apart.
Should I be thinking deeply about that? Did it mean more or was I moving too fast?
Sam had chosen a café near campus that served excellent coffee and pancakes the size of dinner plates. He was already there when I arrived, sitting at a corner table with his laptop open and approximately enough food for three people spread across the table.
“Did you order the entire menu?” I asked as I slid into the seat across from him.
“I’m stress-eating. Tyler and I adopted a puppy this morning and I’m having feelings about it.”
“Feelings like you’re excited or feelings like you’re terrified of responsibility?”
“Both. Simultaneously.” He pushed a plate of pancakes toward me. “Eat. You need energy for tonight.”
I looked at the stack of pancakes drowning in syrup and butter. “I’m not going to fit in my dress if I eat all that.”
“You’ll be fine. Stop being dramatic.”
“Don’t sound like my mother.”
“I’m just showing you love. Appreciate my good gestures.” He sighed, looking exaggeratedly offended.
Then he took a bite of his own pancakes. “So. Tonight. Terrace Guy. Are we excited or terrified?”
“Can I be both?”
“Welcome to the club. At least someone understands how I feel.” He chewed thoughtfully and then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it and his entire face changed—went soft in a way I’d rarely seen.
“What?” I asked.
“Tyler just sent me another photo.” He turned his phone to show me a picture of Tyler holding a small brown and white puppy with enormous eyes. “This is Benson. We got him from the shelter this morning, and I’m already obsessed and terrified.”
“Sam.”
“I know.” He was grinning now, looking at the photo like it was the best thing he’d ever seen. “He’s perfect and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“You’re going to be a great dog dad.”
“You think?”
“I know.” I smiled at him. “Send me more photos later. I want to see Benson destroy your apartment.”
“He’s probably destroying it right now.” But Sam looked happy about it, already typing a response to Tyler.
He set his phone down and refocused on me. “Okay. Back to you. You checked Terrace Guy out, right? The company he works for? Made sure he’s not secretly a serial killer?”
“I’m not that paranoid.”
“You absolutely are. Did you check or not?”
I’d checked. That night after we’d hung up, I’d googled Hudson River Development and found exactly what he’d said—small firm, nothing remarkable, no red flags. A handful of residential projects in Brooklyn and Queens, all completed without major controversy.
“I checked,” I admitted. “Everything looks fine. He’s just a guy who works in real estate and apparently has some stress at work.”
“The stress that made him call you drunk at nine PM on a Wednesday?”
“People have bad days, Sam.”
“Bad days, sure. But calling someone you barely know while drunk suggests either he’s very comfortable with you or very bad at boundaries.” Sam pointed his fork at me. “Which is it?”
I thought about how Archie had sounded on the phone. Vulnerable but not sloppy. Honest in a way that felt like he was trusting me with something fragile.
“Comfortable, I think,” I said. “Or maybe just lonely, and I was the person he wanted to talk to.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet.” Sam’s expression softened slightly. “Okay. I’ll allow it. But if he shows up tonight and he’s weird, you text me immediately.”
“Define weird.”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
We worked on the presentation for an hour, debating citation formats and arguing about whether our professor would accept creative liberties with case law interpretation. Sam was better at the theoretical stuff, and I was better at practical application, so we balanced each other out.
My phone buzzed just as Sam was launching into a passionate defense of why our conclusion was actually brilliant and Professor Diane would love it.
I glanced at the screen.
Archie
Still good for tonight? I can pick you up around 6 if that works.
My pulse kicked up and I found myself reading the text twice. Sam noticed my spike in mood immediately. “Is that him?”
I nodded, already typing back.
Gianna
6 works.
Archie
Perfect. Looking forward to it.
I set my phone down but couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through my chest.
Sam watched me with the expression of someone observing a scientific experiment.
“Show me. I’m dying of curiosity here.” He reached for my phone, and I pulled it away.
“It’s just confirming plans.”
“Let me see the texts.”
“No.”
“Gianna—”
I handed over my phone with a sigh. He read through the exchange and his eyebrows went up.
“He’s picking you up? At your apartment?”
“That’s what people do on dates.”
“No, most guys our age suggest meeting somewhere because commitment is terrifying and picking someone up feels too relationship-y.” He handed back my phone. “Terrace Guy gives off traditional-man vibes. I’m into it.”
“You’re into everything lately. The puppy thing is making you soft.”
“I’m not soft. I've evolved.” He leaned back and studied me. “So. Scale of one to ten, how into him are you?”
“I don’t know. We’ve had coffee once. This is just a second date.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I took a bite of pancakes to buy myself time.
“I’m attracted to him,” I said finally. “Obviously. He’s attractive.”
“Understatement. Terrace Guy is hot. Like unfairly hot. I see why you couldn’t forget him.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?”
I tried to find the right words. “When he looks at me, I feel seen. Not like he’s looking at Law-Student Gianna or any version of me that makes sense. Just… me. And it’s terrifying and addictive at the same time.”
Sam set down his fork. “Gianna.”
“What?”
“You sound like someone who’s already head over heels.”
I threw a napkin at him. “I am not heads over heels. I barely know him.”
“You’re twisting your ring. You only do that when you’re nervous about something that is important.”
I looked down. He was right. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.
“This is just casual. I’m not building anything serious with someone I barely know.”
Sam looked at me like he’d invented skepticism and I was insulting his intelligence. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
We both knew I was lying.
I spent the afternoon cleaning my apartment in a way I hadn’t bothered with in months. Vacuumed, did dishes, put away the laundry that had been living on my couch for a week. Not because Archie would necessarily come inside, but because I wanted the option without being embarrassed.
Then I stood in front of my closet for twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear.
The dress I’d bought for the first canceled dinner still had tags on it. Floral print, fitted but not tight, the kind of thing that said I made an effort without trying too hard. I paired it with sandals that were comfortable enough to walk in but still looked nice.
Hair up or down? I tried both and settled on up—a loose bun that looked effortless even though it took three attempts to get right.
Makeup was its own crisis. Too much looked like I was trying too hard. Too little looked like I wasn’t trying at all. I settled on something in between—enough to feel confident, not enough to feel like I was wearing a mask.
By five thirty I was ready and pacing my apartment, checking my phone every two minutes like time would move faster if I watched it.
My phone rang at five forty-five. I grabbed it without looking at the screen.
“Please tell me you’re not calling to cancel on me,” I said.
“Cancel what?” Sarah sounded confused.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the screen. Sarah’s name stared back at me. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“Someone who might cancel on you? This sounds interesting.” Her voice shifted to that tone she used when she was about to extract information. “Gianna Pearson, do you have a date?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not a no. Who is he? How did you meet? Is he cute?”
“His name is Archie. We met three years ago and reconnected recently. And yes, he’s very cute.”
“Three years ago? You’ve been holding out on me.”
“It wasn’t intentional. We lost touch and then ran into each other at school a couple weeks ago.” I adjusted my dress in the mirror for the hundredth time. “It’s been… unexpected.”
“Unexpected in a good way or unexpected in a ‘I need Sarah to talk me off a ledge’ way?”
“Good way. I think. Ask me again tomorrow when I’m not actively spiraling.”
I heard Lily say something in the background and Sarah laughed. “Lily wants to know if he’s bringing you flowers. She’s been watching too many romantic comedies with me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“He better be bringing you flowers. If he doesn’t, I’m going to have a problem with him.”
“I feel anxious,” I said. “What if I’m building this up in my head and it’s just dinner and I’m being ridiculous?”
“Then it’s just dinner with someone you like and that’s not ridiculous at all.” Sarah’s voice was gentle. “You’re allowed to be excited about someone, Gianna. You’re allowed to want this.”
“Thanks, Sarah.”
“Anytime. Now go have fun and text me tomorrow with all the details. Lily and I want a full report.”
“I will.”
“And Gianna? You look beautiful. I can tell even over the phone.”
I laughed despite my nerves. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I know you. You always look beautiful when you let yourself be happy.”
We hung up just as my doorbell rang.
My heart jumped into my throat. He was early. Or exactly on time. I glanced at my phone—six p.m. exactly.
Punctual. I liked that.
I grabbed my purse and walked to the door, taking one deep breath before I pulled it open.
And then I forgot how to breathe entirely.
Archie stood in my doorway looking like every old movie I’d ever loved.
Dark slacks, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly messed up in a way that looked deliberate.
And in his hands, an enormous bouquet of flowers—peonies and roses and something else I couldn’t name, all wrapped in brown paper.
He looked nervous. And beautiful. And so much better than I remembered that I had to remind myself to actually speak.
“Hi,” I managed.
“Hi.” His smile was tentative, “These are for you. I know it’s old-fashioned, but I saw them and thought—” He stopped, looking suddenly uncertain. “Is this too much? It might be too much.”
I took the flowers from him, their weight substantial and real in my hands. I brought them to my face and breathed in—sweet and fresh and overwhelming in the best way.
“They’re perfect,” I said, and meant it. “Come in. Let me put these in water.”
He followed me inside and I was suddenly very aware of my tiny apartment, of how different it probably was from wherever he lived. But I was pleased that at least it was clean to perfection.
And Archie didn’t look uncomfortable. He looked interested, his eyes taking in the details—the framed photo of me and my mother on the bookshelf, the plant Sam had given me that I’d somehow kept alive, the case files organized neatly on my desk.
I filled a vase with water and arranged the flowers, trying not to let my hands shake. When had I last received flowers? Never, I realized. I’d never received flowers from anyone.
And I’d just discovered that I liked old-fashioned guys.
“Thank you,” I said, turning to face him. “Really. These are beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.” He was still standing near the door, hands in his pockets, looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.
I set the vase on my kitchen table where I could see it, where it would make me smile every time I walked in. Then I grabbed my purse and turned back to him.
He surveyed my apartment with genuine interest, not judgment. His gaze lingered on the photo of my mother and late father, on the stack of legal briefs on my desk.
“Ready?” I asked.
He looked back at me and nodded. “Ready.”