Hazel doesn’t push. She just gives me a soft, knowing look and stands.
“Alright. I’m gonna leave you to overthink this in peace.” That earns a real laugh.
She moves toward the door, tossing a grin over her shoulder.
“The scones just need five minutes in the oven once it’s ready.”
I walk her out, still clutching my coffee like it might tell me what the hell to do next.
“Send me the photo,” I call after her as she opens her car door.
“Already did!” she shouts back.
Once she pulls away from the curb, I finally sink onto the couch and fish my phone from my purse.
Two new messages. One from Hazel—and one from an unknown number. But I know exactly who it is.
Unknown:
Glad you didn’t ghost me. What are your thoughts on another climb? You free this week?
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I should. Of course I’m free.
But that’s not the real question here. I stare at the screen, then finally type out a reply.
Me:
I didn’t realize “not ghosting” came with a workout offer. What exactly are you proposing, Farley?
Hesitating, I almost delete it. But I close my eyes and hit send.
Great. Now I sound like I’m trying to play it cool and failing. Which is exactly what’s happening.
Why did I say “workout”? Like I’m some breezy flirt who hasn’t been thinking about him all week? Is he talking about another hookup?
God, I need a hobby. Or a dog. Or a personality transplant.
My phone buzzes.
You. Me. A climbing wall. A challenge. Definitely not a date.
Another buzz.
But if you want to pretend it is, I won’t stop you.
I snort as my thumbs hover over the screen.
So just a casual public display of strength and mild humiliation? Sounds romantic.
Exactly. Tuesday? 8 p.m.? Wear something you can move in.
I consider it for half a second. And I don’t know what comes over me as I start to type.
Fine. But if I win, I pick the next not-date.
Deal. I like your odds.
I arrive at exactly 8:00 p.m. I'm not early, and I'm not late. Just punctual enough to prove I’m not nervous. Which, of course, I am.