Chapter 11 Serious Is Overrated
Eleven
Serious Is Overrated
Nora
Even after twenty-four hours have passed, I’m still agonizing over why I agreed to dating lessons with Miles.
On paper, it’s simple. He wants practice.
Confidence. He wants to stop being Miles on dates so he can finally impress Maggie.
But my brain won’t let go of the obvious follow-up.
Why me? Sure, on the outside I’m oozing with confidence, but when it comes to relationships, I’m kind of a fraud.
I know what it’s like to stand on the outside of something everyone else seems to navigate effortlessly.
In high school, I was the girl who didn’t get asked to the dance unless someone needed a pity date—or a ride.
I laughed it off as if it didn’t matter, but afterward I went home and buried my face in my pillow, wondering why I tried so hard.
College was a little better… or maybe I mastered the art of pretending.
There were dates, and a few questionable one-night stands that confirmed I definitely have a type.
There were even a couple of relationships that almost stuck, but the second things got too comfortable, I bailed.
And now I’m building an app that isn’t about finding love at all.
It’s about looking like you did, so people stop judging you for not having it figured out.
And in the middle of all that, I’ve agreed to fake date a man in black-rimmed glasses who is wildly outside my comfort zone.
By the time I pull into my mom’s driveway, my jaw aches. I grab the still-warm casserole dish from the passenger seat and make a halfhearted attempt to look like someone who has it together. At the door, I knock twice before letting myself in.
“Hey, Mom,” I call, toeing off my shoes. “I brought food.”
“I’m in the living room,” she answers.
She’s in her recliner with a blanket over her legs, hair pulled back, posture a little too stiff, as if her body is trying to decide what to do with itself.
The TV murmurs in the background, but she isn’t watching it.
Instead, she’s watching me, the way she always does, like she can read the whole day in the slope of my shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I needed something to do,” I reply, setting the casserole on the counter. “Do you want a plate? I can dish you up.”
“I’m okay right now. Save it for later.”
“Okay.” I set the dish to the side. “Something to drink?” I open the fridge and stand there for a second longer than necessary, letting the cool air hit my face as Miles takes over my brain again.
“No, thanks.”
I pull out a bottle of water, then stroll into the living room and drop onto the couch with a sigh. I twist off the cap and swallow a big gulp.
Mom tilts her head. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I lie.
She doesn’t call me on it. Not yet. She just watches me the way moms do when they’ve seen every version of you and know which one is trying too hard.
“How are you?” I ask, forcing my voice to be casual.
“Not too bad. I was a little tired this morning, but nothing to be alarmed about.”
My shoulders loosen a fraction. “That’s good.”
“The new medication is helping,” she adds.
“Yeah?”
“Tremendously.” Her smile is small, but real. “Stephanie was here earlier. We did some PT.”
“So that’s the real reason you look tired.”
“Thanks.” She shoots me a mock glare. “I always wanted a daughter who would tell me I look exhausted.”
I snort, and it’s the first honest sound I’ve made all day.
She leans back, eyes narrowing as if she’s lining up a cue ball. “Alright. Your turn. What’s going on behind those eyes?”
I pick at a thread on my jeans. I could talk about the app. That’s safe. “OneDate hit five hundred subscribers.”
Her face brightens. “Nora! That’s wonderful.”
“I know.” I try to be nonchalant, but pride leaks into my voice anyway. “I’m still working out some minor bugs, but… it’s going really well.”
“That’s incredible. And the bar?”
“It’s… the bar.” I shrug. “Jake is still grumpy, Rylee’s trying to keep order, Lach is constantly texting Eve. But there’s a new guy who started.”
Her tone brightens instantly. “Cute?”
“Unbelievably hot,” I say, because if I’m going to tell the truth, I might as well commit. “Dark hair. Tattoos. Muscles. Former hockey player.”
Mom makes a satisfied little hum. “So… exactly your type.”
“You know me well,” I smirk. “There’s been some minor flirting, but nothing serious.”
She sounds far too pleased. “God forbid there be anything serious.”
“Serious is overrated.”
“Only something my daughter would say.”
“But also,” I blurt too fast, “I did a thing.”
There’s a beat of silence. “A Nora Thing?”
“A Nora Thing,” I confirm, already regretting mentioning it even though my mom is my best friend and I tell her everything.
Mom sighs in a patient, long-suffering way that says she has survived MS, my dad, and my entire adolescence. “Okay. What did you do?”
I press my lips together. “You remember Miles?”
She studies me for a beat. “Yes.”
“He joined OneDate. For practice dates. Not, like, to find love. Just to—practice.”
“I’m sensing that you’re about to tell me something ridiculous.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “He had a date cancel last minute,” I rush on, “and he was going to this family thing, and he’d been trying really hard, and I felt bad and—”
“Nora.”
“I went as the fill-in,” I admit.
Mom blinks. “You went,” she repeats slowly, “on a date with Miles?”
“It was his niece’s birthday party,” I add.
“And how was it?”
“It was… fine.” Mom stares at me, waiting for me to elaborate. I exhale. “Okay. It was more than fine. They’re… fun. And loud. And they laugh a lot. And they made me feel comfortable.”
Her voice softens. “Oh, honey.”
That softness is worse than shock. “And now,” I say, dropping my voice as if the walls might be listening, “his family thinks we’re dating.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes narrow in quiet assessment. “And are you?
“No.” The word comes out fast. “It’s fake.” Mom doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. Silence is her superpower. “Because he gets nervous and he wants to impress this girl and I’m helping and—”
“And is he trying to make this girl jealous?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “It’s not like that. It’s just to build his confidence. He wants to feel normal on dates.”
Mom lifts an eyebrow. “And no lines will be crossed. No feelings. Strictly fake.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My brain decides now is a great time to play a highlight reel of Miles’s hand finding mine.
The warmth of his body as we hugged. How his playful half-smile is different than all his other smiles.
The way he looks at me as if I’m not too much, not complicated, or not a problem to solve.
“Yes?” I manage, but it sounds like a question.
Mom’s mouth twitches. “And at the park, was that fake dating too?”
My stomach flips. “No. That was just… friends.”
Mom hums again. The very same satisfied hum from earlier. “Uh-huh. Just friends.” Mom laughs softly, then sobers. “So you’re lying to his family about being his girlfriend?”
“No. Not girlfriend. Dating. But yes. Technically. It’s Miles’s idea. I’m only doing it to help him.” I don’t want to tell her it’s because I made a deal with him to go drone flying as a favor to me. She wouldn’t be happy knowing she’s a bargaining chip.
She reaches over and pats my knee. “You’re allowed to have things, Nora. You’re allowed to have fun. You’re allowed to be cared for. You deserve something more than fake.”
My throat tightens. That’s the part I don’t know how to handle. Caring for other people? I’m an expert. Letting someone care for me? That’s out of my territory.
At 6:12 p.m., I pull into Miles’s driveway and kill the engine. The house looks like it belongs on a postcard—a two-story farmhouse with wide steps and warm porch lights. I step out of my car and make it halfway up the five stairs before the door swings open.
“I heard you pull in.” Miles stands in front of me, one hand braced on the doorframe, completely casual. Gone are the khakis and polo shirts, replaced with jeans and a dark gray T-shirt.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly aware of my heartbeat.
He opens the door wider and steps aside. “Come in.”
“Thank you. Your house is beautiful.” I toe off my shoes in the middle of the rug before nudging them into alignment beside another neatly placed pair.
We move from the foyer into the living room, where a black cat with white booties struts in as if it owns the place, which it probably does.
The cat hops onto the couch and flicks its tail.
“This is my cat, Mallow. Short for Marshmallow.” A flash of panic flits through his eyes. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
“No. I love cats. I just can’t have one in my apartment.” Besides the no-pet policy, my apartment barely qualifies as enough living space for me. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy.” Miles scoops him up and cradles him like a baby, rubbing his chest while he purrs loudly.
“Okay,” I say, pointing, “I’d understand the name Marshmallow if he was white. But he’s… very black.”
He chuckles. “When I was a kid, I’d roast marshmallows until they were completely black. Then I’d peel off the burnt layer, eat it, and put it back in the fire. I’d repeat the process until it was gone.”
I blink. “That’s one way to eat them.”
“It’s the only way. You get five or six marshmallows out of one.”
I laugh despite myself. “I guess so.”
“So Mallow is the outside of my marshmallow.”
I reach out and scratch the top of Mallow’s head. He immediately leans into my hand, a tiny meow escaping him like a sigh. Miles sets him down, and Mallow promptly weaves between my legs, rubbing against me and declaring us best friends.
“Well,” Miles grins, clearly amused, “I think he likes you.”
“I have to say, I like Mallow too.”
He gestures toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Want something to drink?”
What I want is vodka. Straight. But I settle for something safer. “Water is good.”