Page 50 of The Five Stages of Courting Dalisay Ramos

“It’s normal for people who are in a relationship to see each other’s homes,” he says, gently nodding and smiling. “But you don’t have to come over if you don’t want to.”

It occurs to Dalisay that she hasn’t the faintest idea what “normal” means in America.

Dalisay steels herself, standing on Evan’s porch. Her nerves twist and turn inside of her, competing for the warmth spreading in her belly at the thought of finally going into his home. Alone.

It’s only lunch, she reminds herself. She checks her reflection in the glass of his front door and smooths out the creases of her sweater, a last chance to make sure she looks her best for Evan. She curled her hair, put on lip gloss, even used some of her favorite jasmine perfume. Why is she so nervous suddenly? The coil in her gut feels like it’s about to spring.

She rings the doorbell with shaking fingers. Immediately, she hears a small dog barking.

“It’s okay, Tallulah! It’s just Dalisay!” she hears Evan say behind the door. He opens it and immediately she’s overwhelmed by the smell of fresh-baked bread. Evan stands in anapron, wearing a smile and a black T-shirt with a smudge of flour around the neck.

A little brown dog leaps at Dalisay, tail wagging, jumping up on hind legs to greet her.

“Hello!” Dalisay says, leaning down, letting the dog sniff the back of her hand. “You must be Tallulah. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Tallulah takes kindly to that, licking Dalisay’s hand enthusiastically.

“Come in!” Evan says, beckoning her inside. Tallulah leads the way and Dalisay follows.

Evan’s condo is, strangely enough, exactly how she imagined: minimalist and monochromatic. Evan likes his whites, blacks, and grays. Everything is neat and clean, save for the towers of books leaning against the walls. A plush dark gray couch stands opposite a large TV and dozens of maps of all different sizes, origins, and orientations decorate the walls. His home is simple, but not boring; mature, but not cold; organized, and yet somewhat chaotic. Most importantly, it’s all Evan.

“I was just making some focaccia,” Evan says. “You’d better be hungry.”

“I’mstarving.” She had no idea Evan could cook.

He brings her to a kitchen where glass double doors overlook a small patio garden. The garden is bursting with color, the only place in his house that isn’t monochromatic, and he brought some flowers inside to sit on a small vase on the table. Evan went all out making lunch. Caesar salad, pancetta and pesto pasta, antipasto skewers, shrimp-stuffed avocado. Everything looks delicious.

“I mistimed the focaccia, so it’ll be a few extra minutes until it’s ready,” Evan says, leaning down to peer through the oven window. “Hope you don’t mind waiting.”

Dalisay’s heart swells. “I don’t mind. I never figured you were the home chef type.”

“Traveling so much, I crave foods from all the places I go. Sometimes the only thing I can do is learn how to make them myself.”

“You’ll have to teach me sometime,” she says. Her heart skips when he smiles at her and pours her a glass of red wine. When he hands it to her, he swoops in and kisses her, tasting like olive oil and salt. Like a proper cook, he’s been tasting the food.

After stealing her breath, he leans back and smiles. “Hi. Can’t believe I forgot to do that earlier.”

The blush creeps its way up her face. The pressure below her gut builds and she searches for a distraction. “Want to show me around?”

“Sure, we’ve got time.” He unties the apron, then takes her by the hand.

His condo has a lot of space for one man and his tiny dog. It has two bedrooms, one for himself, and the other he’s turned into an office. His office is the messiest, most chaotic room in the whole house. Seemingly every wall is covered in maps.

“I collect them,” he says when he notices her looking. “Kind of a weird hobby, I know.”

“It’s not weird.”

Evan grins. “It’s a little weird.”

His office has a desk stacked with books, a lamp, and a wide filing cabinet as large as one wall. One of Tallulah’s dogbeds is situated in a corner, surrounded by even more books. It smells like paper here and immediately Dalisay feels at home.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says.

Dalisay sets her wine down on top of the filing cabinet. “Do you work in here?”

“Sometimes. Write, read, research.”

“Using maps?”

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