18. The Date the Universe Planned
THE DATE THE UNIVERSE PLANNED
REESE
At three twenty-six on Saturday afternoon, I hurry down the stairs to where Charlie is in our living room, and say, “How do I look?” I’m wearing a soft green blouse that I’ve got tucked into my fancy jeans, a honeycomb-shaped necklace, ankle boots, and a cropped, faux-suede jacket.
“Adorable,” Charlie says. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Nope. No matter how many perfectly legitimate methods I’ve used to extract information from Miles, he hasn’t given up any clues. That man has an unfair advantage by being trained to withhold information. All he told me was to wear pants, comfortable shoes, and a light jacket.”
Charlie looks down at my ankle boots. “Are those comfortable?”
I shrug. “I’ve worn them for entire school days, so I’m sure they’re close enough.” I pause a second, then say, “So, Owen’s in Philadelphia this weekend, and you’ve got the apartment all to yourself… what are you going to do tonight?”
“I really wanted to watch a romantic comedy.”
“Oh, yeah? Which one?”
“It’s new. It’s called My Roommate Finally Dates the Spy She’s Been in Love with for Years. But I couldn’t talk Miles into wearing a button cam and being on comms.”
I throw her a look. “I haven’t been in love with him for years.”
She just raises an eyebrow.
“I’m not saying I haven’t been,” I add. “I’m saying the timeline is currently under investigation.”
The doorbell rings, and I let out a sound that’s kind of a cross between an eep! and a squeal—a sound I don’t think I’ve ever made before.
Charlie just grins like she’s been waiting years for this exact moment. “It’s your boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Your future boyfriend.”
“We agreed to one date.”
“Your probationary boyfriend.”
I open the door before she can make the title worse.
Miles is standing on the porch in dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt.
The rolled sleeves expose his forearms, which I have somehow managed to regard platonically for five years.
That seems considerably less achievable today.
He is also holding flowers. It’s a bright, slightly unruly bouquet in nearly every color and is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Or maybe it’s just because of the man who’s holding them. He told me he was bringing flowers—I should’ve prepared myself.
Miles’s gaze moves over me, and something warm yet slightly unsettling winds its way through my insides. My eyes make the mistake of doing the same thing to him, and suddenly I understand why Charlie was grinning so hard.
He hands me the flowers and says, “You look beautiful.”
My brain, which has spent four days preparing for the possibility of romantic Miles, provides no useful response. In fact, I even manage to forget how doorways work.
Charlie skips around to my side, takes the flowers and hands me my purse. “I’ll get these in water.” Then she looks at Miles. “Are you sure I can’t hook you up with a button cam and mic?” At Miles’s expression, she sighs. “This was so much easier with Jace and Mackenzie.”
My gaze whips to Charlie, but before I can ask about Jace and Mackenzie, Charlie says, “You guys go. Have fun! Make interesting choices!”
I walk with Miles down my stairs and to his car, which is parked at the curb. He opens the door for me, and I get in. I watch him walk around the front of the car and have the disorienting realization that I’m checking him out. On purpose.
I look around the inside of his car. It’s very clean. There is no gym bag on the floor. No empty water bottle rolling beneath the passenger seat. No hoodie tossed in the back seat. Not a speck of dust or piece of lint in sight.
When he gets in, I say, “You super cleaned your car.”
He smiles. “Of course I cleaned it extra well. This is a date.”
Apparently, flowers are not the only evidence.
As he pulls away from the curb, I say, “So, where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“We’re on the date, and I still don’t get to know?”
“Nope.” He is smiling way too much.
I decide it’s pointless to keep trying to get information out of him, so instead, we spend the next forty minutes heading toward Baltimore, discussing everything except the plans he’s refusing to reveal, including whether the fern thief from Monday successfully escaped.
At four ten, he turns into a commercial complex, and a large blue-and-red sign comes into view that reads, iFLY Indoor Skydiving. I sit forward so abruptly that my seat belt locks. “No.”
Miles parks. “No?”
“I can’t believe we are here.”
“You’ve wanted to try it for three years.”
“I mentioned it what? One time?”
“Three times.”
“That sounds exaggerated.”
“The first was after seeing a video of a seventy-year-old woman flying in the wind tunnel at a place like this. The second was when Jace described rappelling from a helicopter—although at the time you believed he was describing a team-building retreat. And the third time was during that episode of The Village Detective with the Fourth of July celebration, when the stuntman dressed as Uncle Sam floated down in the middle of the town square with a red, white, and blue parachute and landed ten feet from the body.”
I look at the building again. “I cannot believe you remembered.”
He glances at me. “Of course I remembered.”
Of course. He says it as though remembering every small wish I’ve voiced over five years is the most ordinary thing in the world. As though this date isn’t already becoming something much more dangerous than indoor skydiving.
Inside, we check in, sign waivers, and join six other people for a training session. Our instructor, Devon, explains body position and hand signals before giving us flight suits, helmets, goggles, and lace-up shoes.
Once we’re dressed, we file into the tunnel area. The wind roars behind the curved plexiglass while the first two members of our group wobble and flail through their flights.
Then it’s Miles’s turn. He enters the tunnel, settles into position, and immediately becomes weightless. No wobbling. No frantic arm movements. No expression suggesting he has made a serious mistake.
He lifts as smoothly as though he belongs in the air, adjusting his body with movements so small I barely see them. Devon signals something. Miles responds. A moment later, they shoot upward in a rapid spiral.
I press both hands against the glass, watching in awe.
Miles circles the tunnel, controlled and effortless, before descending again and landing with grace.
I’ve always known that Miles is athletic.
Watching him move like this is an entirely different category of information, and my brain is filing that tidbit somewhere less platonic than usual. When he exits, everyone applauds.
Devon flips open the glass of his helmet and says, “You’ve done this before.”
“A bit.”
Miles glances at me through the glass, and I point at him accusingly. He just grins. The traitor made this look easy.
When it’s my turn, Devon opens the clear door, and I step inside, with him holding my arm. The wind catches me instantly. For the first second, nothing in my body understands what is happening. Then Devon positions my arms and lifts my chin.
I float. I am actually floating!
The roar swallows every sound except the rush of air around me. My hair is trapped beneath the helmet, and my mouth is stretched into a grin I can’t control.
Devon loosens his hold on me, and I stay up. I look through the glass and see Miles watching me, his entire face lit with pride. I am doing it. I am indoor skydiving on a first date with my best friend, who is apparently in love with me.
Devon signals for me to straighten my legs. I do. He signals for me to relax. I attempt that, too.
I am just hanging out, flying, living my best life ever, until the final thirty seconds, when I drift sideways faster than expected.
Devon catches my shoulder and redirects me. My stomach drops. The wall seems much closer. I overcorrect, my legs bend, and suddenly I am rotating toward the exit with none of the grace Miles demonstrated.
Devon grips my flight suit and guides me down.
My brain interprets the change in direction as “we are falling to our death in a room specifically designed to prevent that.” So, I panic. As one does.
Not extensively. Only enough to fling one leg forward as I near the doorway.
That heel I flung connects with something solid, and there is a sharp sound beneath the roar.
Then I am sitting on the padded floor while Devon still has hold of my suit.
Miles is crouched beside me with one hand pressed to his jaw.
Even grimacing with one hand to his face, he is so very attractive. Which, of course, does not improve my feeling guilty.
Devon looks at him. “That’s why we keep clear of the doorway.”
“I was trying to help.”
I scramble upright. “Did I kick you?”
Miles moves his jaw experimentally. “I’m fine. It was a glancing blow.” There is already a red mark along the left side of his jaw. Horror rolls through me.
“I kicked you in the face on our first date.”
“I’ve been hit harder.”
“Sentences like that stopped being reassuring last Saturday.”
He smiles, then winces.
“You are not fine!”
Miles gives me a wry smile. “I’m on a date with my best friend. Trust me, Reese, I’m fine.”
Devon examines Miles’s jaw, gives him an instant cold pack, and assures us nothing appears broken.
Miles insists I take my second flight. I resist until he says, “You’ve wanted to do this for years. You’re not ending it because I ignored a safety instruction.”
So, I fly again.
This time, Devon keeps a firmer grip near the exit, and Miles remains well behind the door with the cold pack pressed to his face.
By the time we leave, I am exhilarated, my hair has expanded to twice its normal volume, and Miles has the beginning of a bruise along his jaw.
I feel terrible. I also want to do it again immediately.
“Where now?” I ask as we return to his car.
“Dinner.”
“You can still chew?”
“Yes.”
“Say ‘statistical susceptibility.’”
He looks at me.
“I’m checking jaw function.”
“My jaw functions.”