46
Hannah
By Saturday afternoon, I have successfully turned the prospect of a downtown food-truck festival into a high-stakes emotional endurance sport.
It is just food trucks. It’s supposed to be about over-salted fries, live music that’s slightly too loud, and the legendary mac and cheese served in a waffle cone—a dish that should be illegal in at least twelve states and is secretly beloved in all of them.
It should be a simple afternoon. It should not feel like a referendum on my entire romantic future, yet here I am, staring at my reflection until the girl in the mirror starts to look like a stranger.
I’ve changed four times. I settled on a denim skirt, black tights, and a cropped brown sweater that felt "effortlessly cute" until I actually put it on. Now I just look like I’m trying to convince myself I’m fine because my life has become emotionally humid and I’m forgetting how to breathe.
Ella is perched on her bed, meticulously painting her nails a deep, velvet red while Gerald Reed-Wilder watches from her pillow. Gerald has been spending a lot of time on her side of the room lately. I think he’s choosing sides in the divorce.
“You look good, Han,” Ella says without looking up.
“You always say that. It’s lost its statistical significance.”
“I say it because you usually do. Don’t make me get out a spreadsheet.”
I turn sideways, tugging at the hem of my sweater. “Is it too much? Like I’m trying to compensate for the fact that my brain is currently a dumpster fire?”
“No,” Ella says, finally looking up and blowing on her nails. “You look like a hot girl going to eat questionable street food with a nice boy. It’s a classic aesthetic.”
“Hot girl. Nice boy. Questionable food.” I repeat it like a mantra. “That sounds easy. That sounds like something a normal person handles without a panic attack.”
My phone buzzes on the desk. I lunge for it—habit is a cruel mistress—expecting a name that starts with *N*. It’s Ethan.
**Ethan:** *Outside whenever you’re ready. No rush.*
*No rush.* He says that a lot. No rush, no pressure, whenever you’re ready.
It’s the verbal equivalent of a soft weighted blanket.
It should make me feel lighter, but sometimes it just makes me feel like I’m standing in front of the kindest open door in the world, still unable to walk through it without looking over my shoulder to see who’s watching me leave.
“I want to have fun tonight,” I tell Ella, grabbing my jacket. “I want to stop comparing. I want tonight to be about Ethan.”
Ella’s expression softens, that sharp edge of her humor rounding out into something protective. “Then let it be, Han. Don’t turn every second into a court case. Just go. Eat the terrifying cheese cone. Laugh. Kiss him if you want to. Stop being your own lead prosecutor.”
I point at her. “That was suspiciously helpful. It’s grossing me out.”
She grins. “Go.”
Ethan is leaning against his truck, looking like a catalog for "Dependable and Handsome" in a gray jacket and dark jeans.
When he sees me, his entire face shifts—that slow, pleased little pause that I’m starting to recognize.
He looks at me like I’m something precious he’s still surprised he gets to hold.
“You look beautiful, Hannah,” he says softly.
My cheeks warm. Even now, with everything tangled inside me, the compliment lands. “Thank you.”
The drive downtown is effortless. He lets me pick the music, only judging me slightly for a mid-2000s pop song, and we spend ten minutes debating whether clothing can have academic ambition.
He’s easy. He’s easy in the way Nate is complicated, and for the first time all week, my shoulders actually drop from their permanent position near my ears.
The festival is a sprawling mess of string lights and river-walk views. The air is a thick, dizzying blend of fried dough, wood-smoke barbecue, and cinnamon. A band is playing acoustic covers on a small stage, the sound folding over the crowd like a warm blanket.
Ethan doesn't grab my hand immediately. He waits.
He lets our shoulders brush as we walk, a silent question in the air between us.
This time, I’m the one who answers. I slip my fingers into his, and the way he squeezes back—firm and grateful—makes a bittersweet ache of guilt and warmth bloom in my chest.
“We came here for the dairy chaos,” Ethan declares, pointing toward the mac and cheese truck.
“I’m expanding the mission to tacos first.”
“This is how operations fail, Hannah. We need a cheese-first strategy.”
We get the tacos. Then we get the cone. It is, as predicted, a structural disaster. Ethan ends up with cheese on his thumb and looks so genuinely offended by the mess that I laugh until my eyes water.
“I’m injured,” he grumbles, though he’s smiling.
“You’re cheesy. It was timely.”
“That was terrible. I’m choosing to believe that was a compliment.”
The date is *good*. That’s the word I keep circling.
Not because I’m forcing it, but because it’s true.
Ethan is funny, observant, and patient. When he touches the small of my back to guide me through a group of people, I don't flinch.
When he leans in to hear me over the music, I don't pull away.
Not every good thing has to arrive like a thunderstorm.
Sometimes good can be a steady, quiet light.
But there are the moments. The tiny ones I wish I could drown in the river.
A guy walks by in a Northwood hockey hoodie and my eyes track the movement before I can stop them.
The band plays a song I once heard in Nate’s truck, and for a heartbeat, I’m not on the river walk.
I’m in a passenger seat, trying not to look at a pair of large, capable hands on a steering wheel.
I stay with Ethan. I hold his hand tighter. I let the night be good.
The ride back to campus is quiet, softened by the heater and the low hum of the radio. When he parks outside my dorm, the end-of-date weight settles over us. Familiar. He turns off the engine and looks at me, his eyes dark and hopeful in the dim light of the cabin.
“I had fun tonight, Hannah,” he says.
“I did too.”
I should get out. I should say goodnight while the night is still sweet and uncomplicated. But something reckless—something desperate to prove I’m okay—moves through me. I want to feel more. I want to prove that the spark I feel with Nate isn't the only fire I can start.
“Can we stay here for a minute?” I ask.
Ethan’s brows lift. “Yeah. Of course.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I take a breath, then shift. It’s not graceful.
I climb over the center console and into his lap, my knee bumping the steering wheel, my boot catching on the leather.
Ethan makes a startled sound and catches my waist, steadying me as I settle over him.
The truck cab feels suddenly tiny, the windows already beginning to fog.
“Is this okay?” I whisper, my hands resting on his shoulders.
His laugh is low, a bit wrecked. “Yes. Very okay. Is it okay for you?”
“Yes.”
I kiss him first. I want to be the one to start it.
His hands tighten at my waist as he kisses me back, surprised at first, then gaining confidence.
The kiss turns hot quickly. I let my hands slide into the hair at the nape of his neck.
I like the sound he makes—that quiet, needy groan. I like knowing I caused it.
I shift closer, and the steering wheel presses into my back. I move against him experimentally, trying to find that dizzying rush I know my body is capable of.
Ethan’s hands are careful—so careful—flexing against my hips as he follows my lead. He moves his mouth to my jaw, then my neck. I tilt my head, giving him room. It feels nice. It feels warm and pleasant.
I wait for the drop. The feeling of the world falling away. The electric surge that makes me forget my own name.
It doesn’t come.
A cold prickle of panic flickers at the edge of the moment.
*No. Stop comparing. Stop thinking.* I kiss him harder, trying to drown out the analytical part of my brain that’s busy taking notes on the differences.
Ethan’s hands are steady, his breath is hot, but the pleasure stays on the surface, circling like a bird that won't land.
I move again, slower, deeper, trying to chase that one spark from earlier.
My body is awake. I’m interested. I’m not a statue.
But the edge never gets closer. The frustration begins to tangle with a deep, hollow sense of embarrassment.
My thighs start to ache from the position.
Ethan is into it—he’s very into it—and I hate that his goodness isn't enough to make my body surrender.
I slow down. I can’t help it. Ethan notices immediately. He’s too observant for my own good.
His hands still on my hips. “Hey,” he says softly, his breath ragged.
I hide my face against his shoulder for a second. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He sounds breathless, but his voice is still that soft weighted blanket. “Are you okay?”
I lift my head. His hair is messy from my fingers, his mouth swollen. He looks at me with so much kindness it actually makes my throat ache.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“Real?”
My heart twists. It’s the same question. A different voice, but the same terrifying demand for the truth. I look away, and the space in the truck feels miles wide.
I climb off him, retreating to the passenger seat. I smooth my skirt with trembling hands. My face is on fire.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I just... I wanted to.”
“I know.” Ethan exhales slowly, leaning his head back against the headrest. “I believe you, Hannah. I just don’t want you to force anything with me.”
“I’m not,” I lie, my voice tiny.
His face says he wants to believe me, and I want him to believe me, too. Maybe if he does, the lie will become true.
“I just get in my head,” I add.
“That’s allowed. I don’t want it to ruin things.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
He gives me a small, patient smile. No pressure. No accusation. Just Ethan.
He walks me to my door, the night air sobering me instantly. He kisses my cheek—soft, careful, and kind. It’s the kind of kindness that feels like being handed a delicate glass when my hands are already full of lead.
I watch him leave, then I head upstairs.
Ella is awake, sitting with a book. She takes one look at my face and the book is gone. “How was it?”
I lean against the door. I want to say "good." It *was* good. The tacos were good. The lights were good. But then I think of the truck. I think of me trying to perform a script my body hadn't authorized.
“I tried, Ella,” I whisper, my face crumpling. “I really tried.”
She’s up in a second, pulling me into a hug. I tell her everything—the lap-climbing, the make-out, the way I tried to move against him like I did with Nate.
“I kept waiting for my body to do what it did with him,” I sob into her shoulder. “And it just... it didn't. It was nice. It was warm. But I couldn't get there. I kept comparing, and I felt so awful because Ethan didn't do anything wrong. He was perfect about it.”
“That’s why it hurts,” Ella says, rubbing my back. “If he were a jerk, the answer would be easy.”
I cry harder, the tissues she hands me becoming a soggy mess. I don't want to be this girl. I don't want to be the girl with a sweet guy who is trying so hard, while I’m still haunted by a polite nod in the quad.
My phone buzzes.
**Ethan:** *Got home. Hope you’re okay. I had a really good night.*
I stare at the word *Always* when he replies to my thank you. It sits in my chest like a stone. I set the phone down and don't open Nate’s thread. I don't tell him I tried and failed. I don't tell him he was in the truck with us without even being there.
I crawl into bed and stare at the dresser in the dark. The bottom drawer holds a black shirt. I don't touch it. But I know it's there.
And that is the problem. Ethan held me tonight like I was something worth waiting for, and all I can think is that waiting might not be enough when a part of me has already arrived somewhere else.