Page 7 of Story Of My Heart

“You’re seeing a therapist? Am I that much work?”

I can hear his footsteps on the carpet, and not in the direction of the elevator. He’s starting to pace again.

“I was a psych major, remember? I know a lot of therapists. And yes, you are that much work. Get a hobby. Go find something to do.”

Or someone, I think to myself, trying to stifle a laugh against the back of my hand. My love life may be nothing to write home about, but at least I have the excuse of being busy with my job. I don’t know what Tate’s deal is. Him coupling up would kill two birds with one stone. He’d be so busy having sex he’d leave me alone, and I could stop fantasizing that the person having sex with him was me.

“I’ll wait,” he insists.

Yanking the brush through my thick, long hair one more time, I flare my nostrils. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

I’m about to tell him in no uncertain terms that he needs to go back upstairs before we start to examine the finer points of my job description or discuss the issue of a considerable raise, when there’s a knock at the door. It startles me, and I jump hard enough to knock over the dozen or so cosmetic products I left littered on the counter in my attempt to make myself look desirable. Annabeth’s guy is early, and I’d love that about him if it wasn’t so damned inconvenient at the moment. I take thirty seconds to straighten out the mess on the counter, just to make sure nothing ends up spilling or staining, and it’s thirty seconds too long.

I emerge from the bathroom to see my worst nightmare. Tate is holding open the door, staring unblinking at a nice looking but understandably confused young man, who I assume to be Elijah.

“Who are you?” Tate asks, utterly bewildered. I can tell from the way he keeps looking behind the guy and toward the floor of the hallway that he thinks he might be an UberEats driver, and is wondering where on earth he’s hiding my food.

“I’m Elijah,” he offers with a smile, extending his hand. Tate looks down at it, but does nothing, leaving his hands firmly in his pockets. “Piper’s date?”

“Date? Um… come in I guess.” Tate mumbles, gesturing awkwardly to the inside of my apartment. His social skills aren’t usually the best, but this is off, even for him.

Elijah inches past him, trying to fit through the doorway while Tate does absolutely nothing to accommodate him. “And you are?”

“Leaving,” I interrupt, rushing forward as calmly as I can, smoothing my hair down while trying to conjure a genuine smile. I end up looking pained instead. My gaze shifts to Tate, raising my eyebrows and slowly nodding. “He’s my boss. Work emergency, but it can wait. So he’s leaving.”

Tate purses his lips, squinting at me, before pointing toward a plate on my kitchen counter. On top of it sits a half-eaten sandwich, which explains what he was doing in my fridge.

“You’re out of Grey Poupon. I thought you should know. And your ham … starting to smell questionable.”

There is a brief moment where I consider telling him exactly where he can stick my questionable ham, but then I see the concerned look on Elijah’s face. I don’t want to freak my date out before we’ve even left the building.

“I guess I overestimated the number of times you’d show up uninvited and make a sandwich this week.”

Tate starts to walk backwards toward the elevator with a shrug. “How could you plan for that, really?”

“Excellent point,” I nod, with the grin still plastered on my face. I may have pulled a muscle in my cheek from the sheer force with which I’m smiling. “Goodnight, Tate. Let’s go, Elijah.”

The excitement about getting out of the house wears off no more than ten minutes into the ride to the restaurant. Not that there’s anything wrong with Elijah. He’s super sweet, exactly like Annabeth described. I guess that’s the problem. I’m so used to the quick banter between Tate and me that adjusting to normal conversation—without our usual trade of insults or threats about firing, destitution, and funeral plans—is difficult.

We have a reservation at a small noodle house that I’ve never been to before. My understanding of restaurants in the area has become limited to places that Tate would order takeout from, and this is definitely too low brow for him. The place is tiny and dimly lit, full of plants hanging from baskets, with a large fish tank taking up much of the limited wall space. I get the impression from the small number of staff who all seem to know each other that it’s a family run place, and I’ve always found that sort of thing comforting. Family run businesses take a certain pride in what they do.

Elijah’s kindness extends to the ordering process. He refuses to make up his mind and order anything for us, instead waffling between seemingly every item on the menu and asking my input on each choice. I should be flattered that he’s so interested in what I want, but I spend all day picking things out for Tate, and I always know exactly what to get him because his tastes are so defined. When the waitress comes to our table for a third time, I take over for him and order several things for us to share in quick succession, in addition to a large very cold beer for myself.

It’s been so long since I’ve had to make small talk that I think I’ve forgotten how to do it. So much of my days are spent doing things for or with Tate. I don’t want to spend the whole date talking about another man, but if I take all of that away, I don’t have much left to say about myself. This whole date is serving as a reminder of the fact that I don’t have a life of my own, and even when I do have the rare evening to myself, the whole thing is dominated by Tate’s shadow. The food is good, and the beer is decent, and I try like hell to keep Elijah happy, asking him as many questions as I can about his life outside of being a personal assistant. He does a lot of yoga, and he gardens in his spare time. I’d love to date a guy who brings me homegrown tomatoes, and knows exactly what kind of stretch I need to fix that permanent sore spot at the base of my neck, but I just can’t get excited over him in the way that I want to, and that he deserves.

He offers to pick up the check, but I insist on splitting it, because I’ve already decided that this is not a date. And there’s a sharp twinge of guilt in my chest when he asks if I want to go somewhere else after this. There’s a club nearby that he likes, and the closest movie theater still has a few more showings tonight. I feel rude not taking him up on the offer, but it would feel even ruder still to string him along for the rest of the night when my heart isn’t in it. I make up some half-assed excuse about my stomach not feeling quite right, and having made a sandwich with the ham in the fridge earlier. I reassure him that I enjoyed his choice of restaurant, and that I really did have a nice time. I plant a chaste kiss on his cheek and tell him to say hi to Annabeth for me, before climbing into the Uber and heading back to my apartment.

I feel like an idiot the second I walk in the door, slinging my heels off haphazardly and hearing them land somewhere by the couch. I could’ve had a nice date with a nice guy, but I let Tate and his probably-not-even-an-emergency get in my head the entire evening instead. So much for work-life balance. Flopping down on the couch, I turn the television onto some mindless reality programming and let bickering housewives dull the itch in my brain. But not before I cast a glance at the elevator, and wonder what it was that Tate was so intent on telling me about earlier this evening.

It’s annoying, really, how my mind loops back to him, to the urgency in his voice that seemed to hold more than his usual demands. There’s this subtle thrill, a treacherous whisper in my thoughts that maybe, just maybe, there’s something more—something he’s not saying. I shake my head, trying to dismiss the ridiculous notion. It’s just Tate being Tate, right? He wasn’t trying to sabotage my date.

But then, why does my stomach knot up at the thought of him needing me, or the way he looked when he saw Elijah standing at the door waiting for me? I tell myself it’s just the stress talking, not some silly, nascent flutter of attraction. No, not attraction. More like... an inconvenient curiosity, one I definitely don’t have time to explore.

Yet, as the night stretches on and the TV blurs into background noise, I can’t help but admit there’s a part of me that’s drawn to the enigma that is Tate Story. Maybe it’s the way his vulnerability peeks through his ironclad exterior, or how he unexpectedly makes me laugh despite myself. Being his right-hand gal is a dangerous game, tiptoeing around the edges of what could be a disastrous distraction—or something unexpectedly real. Either way, tonight has proven one thing: no matter how hard I try, Tate isn’t someone I can simply tune out, not even for an evening.

Chapter Five

Tate

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