5. Dakota
DAKOTA
It’s only dinner. I know that, and I’ve been reminding myself of it as I walk to the restaurant. Brendan and I have spent plenty of time together over the past eight months, and after yesterday, I know we can talk about things that have nothing to do with work.
Still, my stomach has been fluttering since I left my apartment.
I wanted this date. I wanted it even when I was turning him down all summer, when flirting with Brendan was easy because there was always a counter between us or another player walking past or some reason I could remind myself that none of it was serious.
Now I’m in a dress that fits closer than anything I wear to work, a long camel-colored coat, and heeled boots I almost talked myself out of twice.
When I turn the last corner, Brendan is standing outside the restaurant.
My pulse jumps. I’m used to seeing him in team gear, athletic shorts, uniforms, and baseball caps.
Tonight he’s wearing dark pants and a deep blue button-down shirt.
His hair is combed casually back, his jaw is freshly shaved, and his shirt fits him obscenely well.
Then he sees me. His expression changes so quickly that any doubt I had about my own outfit immediately disappears. His gaze moves over me, and warmth spreads in my chest.
“Hi,” I say when I reach him.
“Hey.” His eyes dip briefly. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you. You look very nice too.”
“Very nice, huh?” He grins. “I’ll take it.”
I laugh, and some of the nerves in my stomach ease. Then I notice the piece of paper taped inside the restaurant door. A mechanical failure has closed the restaurant for the evening, with an apology and a promise to reopen as soon as possible.
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. I feel bad for them.” Brendan looks through the darkened front windows before he turns back toward me. “Well? Want to walk and see what we find?”
“Sure. Let’s do it.”
We head down the block together. The night is cool, and most of the trees have started turning, with dry leaves collecting along the edges of the sidewalk. Restaurants are busy, and people move between bars and shops in coats and sweaters.
For the first few minutes, I expect to feel the awkwardness of being on a date with him.
Instead, it feels…easy. We talk about different places we’ve lived, which turns into the worst apartments we’ve ever rented, and I learn that Brendan spent his first year in the minors living with three other players in a two-bedroom apartment with one semi-functioning air conditioner.
“Four professional athletes and one bathroom?” I ask.
“Three professional athletes and me. I was nineteen and making almost nothing.”
He tells me they had a month-long war over a stolen burrito.
I tell him about the apartment I had after college where the upstairs neighbor practiced drums very badly at midnight.
By the time we reach the next intersection, I’m laughing and wondering why I spent so much of the summer convincing myself that an actual date with Brendan would be a complete disaster.
We stop outside a vintage store a few blocks later. The window is crowded with old lamps, records, jewelry, dishes, framed advertisements, and enough miscellaneous objects that I can’t tell where one display ends and another begins. “This place looks fun.”
Brendan reaches for the door. “Let’s look.”
Inside, the store is even more crowded. Narrow aisles twist between shelves and mismatched furniture, with old music playing near the register. I pick up an old cookbook from a stack and flip through a few pages while Brendan checks a box of records beside me.
“You’d actually cook something out of that?” he asks.
I turn the book toward him, showing him a photograph of a gelatin ring filled with shrimp and olives. “Tell me this doesn’t get your mouth watering.”
Brendan stares at the page. “I suddenly don’t trust you as a dietitian.”
I give his arm a playful shove and put the cookbook back, and we continue deeper into the store.
Brendan stops to look at an old framed concert poster while I get distracted by colored glassware, vintage dresses, and a display of jewelry.
When we reach the back of the shop, something else catches my attention.
“Is that a photo booth?”
Brendan follows my gaze. An old booth is tucked beside a rack of coats, with a faded curtain and a handwritten sign promising it still works.
“Wow,” I say. “I haven’t seen a real one in years.”
He’s already pulling cash from his wallet. “Then we’re doing it.”
The booth is small, and I start laughing as soon as he sits down. His knees nearly touch the wall opposite him, and there isn’t enough room left on the bench for half of me. “This isn’t going to work.”
“It’ll work.” He looks up at me. “Sit here.”
His hand pats one thigh. My stomach flips.
“Of course that’s your solution.”
“You got a better one?”
I don’t. I duck inside, and his hands settle around my waist while I lower myself sideways across his lap. His thighs are hard beneath me, one of his arms staying around my middle because there isn’t anywhere else for it to go. Suddenly, the booth doesn’t feel funny anymore.
“You comfortable?” he asks.
“Uh…kind of.”
“That’s encouraging.”
The countdown starts before I can reply. The first photograph catches both of us smiling. For the second photo, Brendan makes an awful face that makes me laugh right as the flash fires. I retaliate during the third by covering half his face with my hand.
Then the final countdown begins, and we run out of ideas.
“We’re terrible at this,” I say, turning toward him.
The words die as I realize how close his face is to mine.
Brendan’s eyes move slowly over my face.
The hand at my waist doesn’t tighten or pull me closer, but I’m suddenly extra aware of every place our bodies touch.
My hand is resting against his shoulder, and I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.
Neither of us says anything. My pulse races. I know exactly what’s about to happen.
Then the flash goes off.
I pull back and slide off his lap as the machine starts whirring. A few seconds later, the photo strip drops into the slot, and I pick it up.
The first photo is surprisingly nice. The next two get progressively less flattering, but it’s the fourth that holds my attention. We’re turned toward each other, so close that anyone looking at it could probably guess what was about to happen.
Brendan reaches for the strip. “I’ll take that.”
I pull it away. “Why do you get it?”
“I paid for it.”
“And I’m in every picture.”
“Exactly why I want it.”
I’m still blushing as we leave the store and continue down the block.
We don’t have to walk far before the smell of burgers catches our attention.
The place is small and casual, with a walk-up window and outdoor tables.
A couple near us carries away a basket overflowing with fries, and I don’t need any convincing.
Brendan glances at me. “This okay?”
“Definitely.”
We order burgers, fries, and milkshakes, then take a table near the sidewalk. Brendan unwraps his burger and looks at me before lifting an eyebrow.
“What?” I ask.
“Am I going to get a nutrition lecture?”
“Only if you start eating this for breakfast every morning.”
He takes a bite with visible satisfaction. “Good. Because this is fucking great.”
We’re halfway through dinner when a man approaches our table with a boy in a Titans cap. He looks uncomfortable about interrupting, but the boy can’t stop staring at Brendan.
“Sorry,” the man says. “I told him we’d ask. Would you mind signing his hat?”
“Of course.” Brendan puts down his burger and turns toward the boy. “What’s your name, buddy?”
The nervousness disappears from the boy. He tells Brendan about his Little League team while Brendan signs the brim of his hat. Brendan listens without hurrying him, asks which position is his favorite, and tells him to enjoy playing with his friends because that’s the best part.
By the time the little boy leaves with his father, my crush on Brendan has reached embarrassing new heights.
“You’re good with kids,” I say.
“Yeah, I like them.” He takes a drink of his milkshake. “I’d like a few of my own someday.”
“How many is a few?”
“Three. Maybe four.”
I blink. “Four?”
“My sister and I were close, but I always thought a bigger family would be nice.” He looks at me. “Assuming my wife is on board. How many do you want?”
The question is simple, but suddenly this feels much more personal than discussing old apartments or terrible recipes. “I’ve always thought two. Maybe three.”
Brendan holds my gaze. “Three sounds good.”
Something warm moves through me. I look down at my food, but my mind has already betrayed me. I can see Brendan with a child on his shoulders or a baby sleeping against his chest. It makes my heart squeeze.
I force myself back to the present before I start imagining anything that involves me standing beside him. We finish dinner and keep walking. Neither of us mentions going home, and I don’t ask what we’re looking for now. Being together has become the plan.
A few blocks later, we pass a tiny theater with an old marquee advertising classic movies. I slow when I read tonight’s title. “Fun. They’re playing The Princess Bride.”
“Is it good?” Brendan asks. “I’ve never seen it.”
I look at him. “Seriously?”
He checks the showtime posted beside the door. “Shit. It started five minutes ago.”
“So?”
“So we’re already missing it.” He reaches for the door. “We’d better hurry.”
I laugh and follow him inside. By the time we’re slipping into two seats near the back of the dark theater, Brendan’s hand has found mine.
I let him keep it.