Page 43 of Finding Hope

As soon as the lady takes our drink orders and leaves, Brad’s smiling eyes come back to mine. “You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah.” Turning so I can meet his eyes without kinking my neck, I tuck long hair behind my ear and grin as his eyes shoot down to myexposed thigh. He can try to be a gentleman, but a guy’s going to look. “Uh-huh. I’ve been here a bunch of times. It’s good food.”

Nodding enthusiastically, his eyes flick between mine, my thigh, and the menu. He’s like a cat with ADHD. “They cook a really good steak here.”

“They do…”

“So what changed your mind?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Changed my mind? About what?”

Laughing softly, his perfect teeth make me smile. “About me.” His intense eyes study mine. “I thought you’d never agree to a date.”

“I don’t know. I just wasn’t into dating for a bit. School keeps me busy, my family keeps me busy. I was just more interested in napping and hanging out, so dating wasn’t my thing. This time,” I shrug, “I dunno. You asked, and for once, I thought ‘why not? Could be fun.’”

He laughs at my poor enthusiasm. “I knew I’d wear you down one day. My plan for world domination is working right on schedule.”

Laughing, I lean into him. “Right on schedule. I’m glad I didn’t mess up your plans.”

The next hour flies by in a whir of laughter, steak, pasta, and wine. I can’t even say I’m having a crappy time. The more we consume – though neither of us are drunk – the less we find ourselves in awkward silences.

Every now and again, Brad will end a sentence and it’ll feel closed, like the steak comment earlier, where my only response is an awkward ‘yeah.’ It’s hard to follow that with something,anything,but usually, by some great otherworld divination, usually we’re interrupted by waiters coming or going, and we can pretend the awkwardness didn’t happen.

The universe wants me to be here in this restaurant tonight.

Brad tells me how he didn’t grow up here, but that he moved here three years ago to start his job at our school. He’d taught at another school in the city previously, but he said he never felt that same spark that he feels now, that connection to want to stay, so he packed up, applied for a transfer, and voila.

He’s the youngest of three siblings, though – awesome first date topic – his oldest brother passed away when Brad was still a teenager. That was one of the closed what-do-I-follow-this-up-with topics, but he shook it off, took a swallow of wine, and we went back to laughing.

I told him about my brothers, about their jobs, about our relationship dynamic. I told him that I like to dance, and about my best friends, though of course, he already knows Laine from school.

My phone vibrated in my purse at nine, and when I checked in case it was important, I found our group chat blowing up.

They were checking in to see if I needed to be bailed out.

I didn’t.

I don’t have any overwhelming chemistry with this man, he won’t be the love of my life, but I’m not miserable while sharing a meal and company with him. So I stay.

The conversation is light and easy, and the food’s delicious.

That’s enough for me. And it’s definitely better than the treatment I’ve received from some men in the past.

As the hour nears ten o’clock, the tables empty and refill and the wait staff move more diners through, the restaurant seems to turn louder as time goes on.

There are less people in here, but the air buzzes with satisfied bellies and happiness.

After my third and final glass of wine for the night, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. Scooting from the booth and letting Brad help me up, I sigh when he bravely steps in and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of my lips.

I sigh, not because the kiss fizzles all the way down to my toes and shoots fireworks out my ears, but because itdoesn’t.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Iwantto feel something, Iwantthe butterflies in my stomach, but it just won’t happen.

I fear poor Brad is being shuffled into the friend zone, but the good news is, tomorrow night, I can wear sweatpants again and eat chocolate cake with my brothers while we watch Ninja Warrior reruns.

Walking away before I suggest we start making friendship bracelets, I skirt around the edge of the restaurant and head straight into the ladies room.

Studying myself in the mirror, I wash my hands and consider the way I look. Tonight might be a bust, but I still think I look pretty. My eyes aren’t smudged black the way I enjoy, and my hair isn’t sex-messy, but my dress is beautiful, my heels aren’t killing my feet, and my nails aren’t chipped.

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