Chapter 8 #2
We ordered a bottle of something Italian that the waiter recommended, and then we were alone again with menus, candlelight, and the reality that we were doing this. Actually dating.
“I want to know you better.” Ellis leaned forward.
“Like what?”
“Anything. The kind of thing you’d never put on a dating profile.”
I thought about deflecting with a joke. About keeping it light and surface-level, the way I usually did. But the way he looked at me made me want to try.
“I almost didn’t show up tonight.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Really. I spent all day convincing myself this was a bad idea. That I was going to screw it up, that you’d realize I’m not actually worth the effort, that it would be easier to just cancel and go back to…” I gestured vaguely. “The way things were before.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My friends. They reminded me that sometimes the scary thing is the thing worth doing.” I met his eyes. “And I really wanted to see you again.”
The waiter returned with our wine, going through the whole ceremony of showing Ellis the label, pouring a taste, waiting for approval. Ellis nodded, and the waiter filled both our glasses before disappearing again.
Ellis raised his glass. “To scary things being worth doing.”
I clinked mine against his. “And to friends who stage interventions.”
The wine was good, rich and smooth with a bite that lingered. We ordered food. He got the carbonara. I ordered the bolognese, and then we talked.
Talked as if it mattered.
He told me about growing up on Long Island, about being the only child of parents who’d had him later in life.
About feeling like he never quite fit in anywhere, always a little too serious, a little too quiet.
About studying computer science because he was good with patterns and logic, even though his parents had hoped he’d go into law or medicine.
I told him about Ma, about growing up with her fierce love and her determination to give me a better life than she’d had.
About The Chaos Coven, about how they’d saved me in high school when I’d been drowning.
About discovering event planning almost by accident and realizing I was actually good at something that mattered.
Our food arrived, and we kept talking between bites.
He asked about the worst wedding disaster I’d ever handled.
I asked about the weirdest tech problem he’d ever had to solve.
We talked about movies, music, and the strange intimacy of Brooklyn neighborhoods.
About what it felt like to build a life in a city that never stopped moving.
“This is really good.” Ellis gestured at his pasta. “Want to try some?”
“Only if you try mine.”
We swapped forks, tasting each other’s dishes, and the small intimacy of it sat bigger than it should’ve. Sharing food. Trusting each other not to take too much.
“Yours is better,” I admitted.
“Want to trade?”
“Absolutely not. I’m committed to my choice now.”
He laughed, really laughed, head tilting back, and I wanted to bottle that sound.
Dessert appeared; tiramisu, the waiter insisted was “the best in Brooklyn,” and we demolished it between us while the restaurant slowly emptied around us.
Eventually, the waiter brought the check, setting it equidistant between us.
We both reached for it at the same time, hands colliding over the leather folder.
“I’ve got this.” Ellis tightened his grip on the faux leather case.
“You got coffee. It’s my turn.”
“I asked you out. That makes it my responsibility.”
“That’s an outdated social construct, and you know it.” I didn’t let go of the check. “Let me get this one.”
“We could split it.”
“We could, but I’m getting it.” I pulled the folder toward me. “Next one’s on you.”
His expression shifted. “Next one?”
“Yeah. Next one.” I met his eyes over the flickering candle. “Unless you don’t want there to be one.”
“I definitely want there to be.”
“Good. Then let me get this.”
He smiled, that careful smile that was cracking around the edges into something bigger, and let go of the check. “Deal.”
I paid, left a generous tip because the service had been excellent and I was in a stupidly good mood, and then we were standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.
Nine-thirty. The night still young, the Brooklyn streets alive with Saturday energy. Neither of us moved toward the subway.
“Walk with me?” Ellis asked.
“Where to?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.”
We started walking with no destination in mind, just following streets that looked interesting.
The conversation continued, easier now, the nervous energy from earlier replaced by something more comfortable.
We talked about nothing: the restaurants we passed, the weird art installation in someone’s front yard, and the cat watching us from a window.
A few blocks in, we passed a brownstone with its stoop lit by warm light spilling from the windows. Through the glass, a couple sat at their dining table, laughing over something on their phone, shoulders nearly touching.
“That could be us one day. Getting old in Brooklyn, eating dinner together like it’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened.”
For a beat, Ellis went still beside me. His hand tightened around mine.
“Maybe.” His voice had changed. Tighter. Like the thought, both thrilled and terrified him.
I started to ask what was wrong, but he was already pivoting, his stride lengthening, the space between us staying the same but his attention turning inward.
It was subtle enough that I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t starting to notice his patterns.
The way he deflected when things got too real.
The way he disappeared into himself when the future got too close.
“I had a really good time tonight.” He pivoted.
“Me, too.”
“Like, a really good time. Better than I expected.”
“Should I be offended by that?”
“No!” He laughed, and the sound was easier now, as though he’d smoothed over whatever the moment had been. “I meant, I was so nervous I thought I’d forget how to talk. But this has been… easy. In a good way.”
We’d somehow ended up near Prospect Park, the trees’ dark shapes against the night sky. Fewer people here, quieter. More intimate.
Ellis stopped walking. Turned to face me. “Can I ask you something?”
My heart kicked up. “Sure.”
“Why did you really almost cancel tonight?”
His voice carried no games. No traps. It made me want to match it.
“Because I usually don’t do this,” I admitted. “The whole dating thing. Getting to know someone. I usually skip straight to,” I gestured vaguely, “other stuff. It’s easier. Less complicated.”
“Less scary.”
“Yeah. Less scary. But you made it pretty clear that wasn’t what you wanted. And I could’ve walked away. Probably should’ve walked away. But I didn’t want to.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
The space between us tightened. Streetlight caught his eyes, shifting them gold and green. Cedar and citrus drifted from his skin, clean and subtle.
“Jett.” Barely above a whisper.
“Yeah?”
“I want to kiss you.”
My breath caught. “Okay.”
“But I also don’t want to rush this.”
“Also okay.”
“So I’m going to kiss you goodnight. Right now. And then I’m going to get on the subway and go home. We’re going to do this right. Take our time. Actually date.” He stepped closer, near enough that I could count the shadows under his lashes. “Is that okay with you?”
“It’s frustrating as hell, but yeah. It’s okay.”
He smiled. “Good.”
Then he kissed me.
Soft. Careful. His hand slid to the back of my neck and pulled me closer. Wine, tiramisu, and something underneath that was him. The kiss deepened for one dangerous second, long enough to know it could be everything, before he pulled back.
We stood there, foreheads almost touching, both breathing a little harder than we should’ve been after one kiss.
“Goodnight, Jett.”
“Goodnight, Ellis.”
He stepped back, hands dropping to his sides, and the cold rushed in where his hands had been. He smiled, that careful smile now definitely cracked wide open, and turned toward the subway entrance at the corner.
He went. My lips were still tingling, my pulse loud in my ears over one date. One kiss.
My phone buzzed the second he disappeared down the subway stairs.
Calliope: TELL US EVERYTHING
Sierra: How did it go??
Raven: You’re alive, right? Please confirm you’re alive.
I typed back, still standing on the sidewalk like an idiot.
Jett: He kissed me.
Calliope: AND???
Jett: And it was perfect.
Jett: I’m screwed, aren’t I?
Sierra: Completely.
Raven: Totally screwed.
Calliope: But in the best way.
I started walking home, phone in hand, grinning like I’d lost my mind.
They were right.
I was completely, totally screwed.
And I’d never been happier about it.