11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Tate
The coffee shop we picked is the kind of place with exposed brick walls and mismatched chairs, soft indie music humming in the background.
Midday sunlight spills through tall windows, warming the wooden floors.
Students fill most of the tables, laptops open, headphones in, highlighters scattered across textbooks.
Normal. Safe. I chose it on purpose.
Tate is already there when I walk in.
Of course he is.
He’s sitting at a small table near the window, long legs stretched out slightly, sleeves of his gray Henley pushed up just enough to expose his forearms. There are two coffees in front of him, untouched, and when he spots me, his entire face changes.
Softens.
Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
God. I almost turn around and leave.
Instead, I walk toward him, head held high, reminding myself I can do this.
“Hi,” he says, standing immediately.
Not just a nod. Not just a smirk.
He stands.
Like it matters that I walked in. Damn, is it hot in here?
“Hi,” I reply, trying to sound steadier than I feel.
He leans in slightly, hesitates, giving me room to decide, and when I tilt my head just enough, he brushes a gentle kiss against my cheek.
It’s simple.
But my stomach flips anyway.
“How are his numbers?” he asks before I can say anything else.
And there it is again. That steady, quiet attention.
“Stable,” I answer. “He was 118 before lunch.”
Tate nods like that information holds weight. Like this topic belongs in this conversation as much as anything else.
“Good,” he says softly.
We sit. I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, mostly so he doesn’t see them shaking.
He watches me carefully, not intense, not impatient, just… caring.
“You wanted to talk,” he says.
Straight to it. I exhale slowly. “Yes.”
The word feels heavier than it should.
He waits.
Doesn’t rush me.
Doesn’t interrupt.
So I start.
“You need to understand something,” I say, staring down at the foam swirling in my cup. “Dating me isn’t normal.”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of wanting normal.”
I don’t smile. Not yet.
“I mean it, Tate.”
He sobers immediately, hearing the weight of my words.
“I don’t get to be spontaneous,” I continue. “I can’t just leave town for the weekend. I can’t stay out late without planning. There are doctor’s appointments and insurance fights and nights where I don’t sleep because his numbers won’t stabilize.”
I swallow.
“You saw a glimpse of it. That wasn’t even a bad night.”
He listens like every word matters.
“I have a lot going on,” I say quietly. “A kid. An ex who isn’t exactly… easy. And a life that revolves around someone else’s health.” My chest tightens. “I can’t be someone you casually try out.”
There it is.
The truth.
I finally look at him.
He doesn’t look overwhelmed.
He doesn’t look unsure.
He looks… steady.
“Are you done?” he asks gently.
My eyebrows pull together. “That’s your response?”
“No,” he says softly. “I just want to make sure you’ve said everything you need to say before I answer.”
It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
“I think so,” I whisper.
He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Celeste,” he says, and the way he says my name feels deliberate, grounded. “I know you have a kid. I know he has Type 1. I know you don’t sleep some nights.” He holds my gaze. “And I’m still here.”
Emotion rises too fast in my chest.
“You don’t know what that means long term,” I press. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“You’re right,” he says easily. “But I know what I want,” he continues. “And I don’t scare easily.”
I shake my head slightly. “It’s not about being scared. It’s about being realistic.”
“Okay,” he nods once. “Realistically? I’m not asking to replace anyone. I’m not asking to move in tomorrow. I’m asking to take you to coffee. To learn how many carbs are in his favorite snack. To show up when you need someone.”
He reaches across the table slowly, giving me time to pull back, and covers my hand with his.
Warm.
Steady.
“I don’t see the things you're facing as faults or think they makes you less worth my time. I see you as a woman who’s done hard things and is still standing.”
My throat tightens.
“And my son?” I ask.
His thumb brushes gently over my knuckles.
“Your son is part of you,” he answers without hesitation.
“Which means he matters. I’m not intimidated by that.
I respect it. And he’s pretty funny.” He smiles at his words, “I have sat and thought it over. I even met with Liam, and trust me, he busted my balls over and over about the responsibility of a child. I know I don’t know it all, but I’m going to try.
I know failing is fatal, and I’m taking that very seriously. ”
“You say that now,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I do. And if at any point you think I’m not showing up the way you need? You tell me.”
His jaw softens slightly.
“I’m not Brett.”
The name hangs between us.
“I won’t disappear when it gets inconvenient or hard. He’s a piece of shit, and if If I ever get the chance to tell him that, I sure fucking will.”
The air feels heavier now, like a weighted blanket.
Safe.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he adds quietly.
“If you need to move slow, we move slow. If you need to check his Dexcom in the middle of a date, I’ll wait.
If you want to stay in and watch a movie together, I’ll order the pizza.
I just want you, I want you to give us a chance.
Celeste, I’m not fucking Shakespeare, but there is this thing in my chest that beats harder when you’re around, there’s a comfort when I think about you and Rowen. ”
My lips tremble despite my best effort.
“You make it sound easy,” I say.
“It won’t be,” he admits. “But the hard things are usually worth it.”
There’s no performance in his voice. No ego.
Just certainty.
And for the first time in a long time… The idea of not doing everything alone doesn’t feel terrifying.
It feels… possible.
I squeeze his hand back.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine, and I swear I can see a glimmer appear at my acceptance.
“Okay?” he repeats.
“Okay,” I say again, stronger this time.
And when he smiles, slow, warm, almost relieved.
I realize something quietly monumental.
This doesn’t feel like survival.
It feels like choosing.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
I’m ready to let myself be chosen back.