How to Cut a Date Short
Leighton
“But…but Birdie said you’re a chef!” I point out, my voice shooting toward the sky, as if somehow repeating Birdie’s words could erase the absolute horror of what Miles has just admitted.
And horror is on his face too. “I wish I were a chef! No, I’m not. What the fuck would make her say that?”
I point wildly in the direction of Fillmore Street, as if pointing to his grandmother. “She told me you were. She said not to bring up your job—that’s why I didn’t say anything. I was trying to be respectful.”
His eyes flash with frustration, but I catch a flicker of realization in them, too, as he stares at the ceiling for a beat, like he can’t believe this is actually happening.
He looks back at me, finally. “And she told me not to discuss my job with you. She said nobody wants to hear about that on a first date. She said to talk about other things. Holy fuck—I should have told you what I did sooner.”
He drags a hand across his brow, looking like he’s received the worst news of his life. And honestly, it kind of is.
“You’re…Miles Falcon,” I say, since I need to voice it out loud, and as I do, the truth hits me with full force.
I didn’t put Miles the chef together with Miles Falcon the Sea Dog, because why would I?
I legit thought he was a chef; I don’t study the pictures of the players on my dad’s team.
I haven’t been to a game in a while, since I studied abroad the year I think he joined, and, well, I’ve been pretty busy in the last year too.
“You don’t look like a hockey player. You look like…
” I flap my hands at him, still adding up how the hell this misunderstanding has happened.
“Well, you look like a chef. With the boots and the black and the glasses.”
He sighs heavily. “Yeah, well, I only cook for fun. I play hockey for work. And I thought you knew.”
“How would I know?” I’m nearly shouting. “I don’t memorize pictures of the players.”
Also, hello! He plays hockey. He’s not a movie star. But that’s rude to point out.
Miles holds up his hands in surrender, clearly frustrated with himself now. “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I thought maybe you knew I played hockey and didn’t care. Or that you just…didn’t care what I do.”
“I didn’t care about what you do…until I found out you worked for my father,” I say, sputtering.
“Shit, shit. This is terrible.” He shakes his head, not even bothering with the spilled artichokes and glass on the floor. “I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I slept with the coach’s daughter.”
He sounds sick to his stomach. I feel sick to mine too. “I can’t believe I slept with one of his players,” I mutter, pacing around his living room, trying to untangle this mess and make sense of it.
My dad’s been the coach of this team for the last five years. Players respect him. The league respects him. He’s had a phenomenal career. And I can’t get involved with a member of his team.
“I didn’t know it was you,” I add quickly when I stop pacing and head into the kitchen because it feels important to make that clear.
I don’t want him to think I’ve tricked him.
“I really believed Birdie, and I’m guessing she told me you were a chef to protect you.
She probably thought if she told me you played hockey that I might only be interested in you for that reason, since she obviously knew we were into each other. ”
He laughs humorlessly. “Trust me, she knew I had it bad for you the first day we met.”
My stupid heart flips, but I don’t let myself linger on the feeling—it’s fleeting.
Besides, I want to impress this point on him.
“I’ve been out of town. I went to college in Los Angeles.
I even spent a year studying abroad in London.
And since then I have been busy working on my career.
I know hockey, but I don’t know every single player.
I’m not one of those superfans who can rattle off each team member and recognize every photo of them. ”
Miles just stares at me, stunned. “Did Birdie know who you are though?”
“I don’t think my last name came up. I’m not close with her. We just talked about photos, and that was all.”
He shakes his head, dismissing the thought of Birdie knowing his coach is my father, because why would she do that to her beloved grandson?
“She wouldn’t have done this on purpose…
She knows how much I admire your father.
” Miles lets out a pained sigh and drops his head into his hands.
“Holy shit, your father saved my career. He fought for me to be on this team when I was struggling in Vancouver. He helped me get over a problem on the ice. He hooked me up with a sports psychologist. Your father is the reason I still have a career.”
“My father is the reason I have one good parent who cares about me…” I trail off, the weight of this whole mess pressing down on me.
We stand there in his kitchen, surrounded by a broken jar of artichokes, an open bottle of wine, and the ingredients he’d planned to make into our late-night dinner.
A dinner that isn’t happening now. A second date being cut short.
A third that won’t ever come to pass. Because it’s not a matter of who says it first; when we look at each other, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt we’re both thinking the same thing.
“This can’t happen again,” I whisper.
Miles nods, understanding immediately. “I know. Let me take you home.”
I shake my head. “I’ll catch a Lyft.”
“Let me drive you.”
“It’s not necessary,” I say.
“You’re right. It’s not. But I still want to do this for you. It’s all I can do right now,” he implores me, sounding more vulnerable than I expected.
It’d be silly to think either one of us fell hard in one day and night.
And I’m realistic, above all. I believe in facts and hard work.
I don’t believe in taking risks with my future.
But even so, everything about today and tonight felt real and possible, and it’s hard to give that up.
So, yes, I suppose his vulnerability makes sense after all.
And I wouldn’t mind a few last stolen moments with this man. “Okay.”
He leaves the spilled artichokes on the tiled floor. “I’ll clean those up later,” he says.
“Shame. They’re my favorite,” I say as we return to his car.
He pulls out of his garage and into the night. I give him my address, and he plugs it into the GPS then navigates along the streets of San Francisco, now shrouded in a rare night-time fog. But that feels fitting.
He’s quiet for a long beat. Once we cruise along Van Ness Avenue, he says, “This is a massive line I can’t cross.”
“It’s a line for me too. I would never want to hurt my father or change how he might think about the team he loves coaching. The only thing he loves more than his team…is his daughters.”
Miles manages a tight smile. “I wish he’d called you and your sister by your names the few times he mentioned you. And she’s the only one he even mentioned coming to a game since I’ve been with the team.”
“She’s in high school so she still lives at home. And as for my dad…he’s a private man. He’s always been that way.” His reputation is pristine. The respect he’s earned from his players is well-deserved. I’m not going to ruin that.
A few minutes later, I’m at the front door of my building in the Mission District, a far cry from the Marina.
Miles sighs heavily, letting his head fall back against the seat.
“I didn’t mean that last thing—about wishing I’d known who you were beforehand,” he says softly, then turns and looks at me with such longing in his eyes.
“I’m glad I didn’t know who you were, and I don’t regret anything about tonight. ”
“Me neither.”
With that, I leave the best date I’ve ever had in the past.
* * *
“Potatoes. Scrambled eggs. No butter, please—just oil. Well-cooked. Toast dry.”
Before our dad can finish his order, Riley and I chime in unison from across the booth, “And a cup of fruit on the side.”
The server at our regular café near Riley’s school laughs. “Someone knows your order, sir,” he says to my dad.
My father gives us a stern look, like he’s challenging my sister and me to just try it again. “And coffee—”
“Black. No sugar, no cream,” Riley and I say together, since we can’t resist needling him.
The server chuckles, jotting it all down. “Noted.”
“And for you?” he asks, turning to me.
I order pancakes. After last night went sideways, it just feels like a pancake kind of morning. “With extra syrup,” I add.
My dad tilts his head in curiosity, studying me. “You always order eggs with artichokes and mushrooms.”
A pang hits me in the chest, sharper than I’d like. Artichokes feel off-limits today, tangled up with the memory of Miles mentioning he’d make them for me last night. Then the jar breaking at his feet. The thought feels too fresh, too close.
Riley jumps in. “She usually does, but she mixes it up way more than you. You’re a creature of habit, Dad.”
“Nothing wrong with habits. Especially good ones,” he says.
“True. But I need pancakes today, Dad. Maybe even whipped cream,” I say, pushing the memory of last night away. I’ve been doing that all morning long. I feel like I’ll be doing it longer than I’d like.
The server nods my way, like we’re kindred spirits. “I hear you, girl. Some days, you just need all the extra sugar.”
Yeah, like after you sleep with one of your dad’s players.
But I try to shove that thought of Miles out of my mind.
His hands, his ink, his eyes, the way he talked, the way he listened…
I sit up straighter, focusing on keeping my hands still.
I won’t be seeing him again. My dad will, though—in two hours when he gets on the team bus, then boards the team jet as they head to their first pre-season game.