Page 25 of Under Southern Stars
“I’d like that.”
The tiramisu arrives. We share it, trading bites and stories. He teaches me how to swear in Maori (“But only for emergencies,” he warns), and I teach him the proper way to handle Tasha (“Agree with her, then do whatever you were going to do anyway”).
“Jack?” I say as the waiter brings our check. “This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
“No?”
“No. It can just be…this. Whatever this is.”
“And what is this?”
I think about Madison’s words, about feelings and letting things be real.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I want to find out.”
He smiles, that slow, warm thing that made me notice his accent in the first place. “Me too.”
We close the place down. He walks me to my car, hands in his pockets like he’s keeping them from reaching for me. The night air is cool, and I shiver slightly in my dress.
“Cold?” He’s already shrugging out of his jacket.
“I’m fine—”
But he’s draping it over my shoulders, and it smells like him, and I’m definitely not fine in the best possible way.
“This was…” I start.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It was.”
“Same time next week?”
“Tomorrow, if you want. I’m on call ‘till three, but as long as…” He shrugs.
“I’ve got Madison tomorrow. Soccer game.”
“Sunday?”
“Sunday works.”
He steps closer, and I think he’s going to kiss me. Want him to so badly. But he just reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Goodnight, Sophia.”
“Night, Jack.”
I drive home in a daze, wearing his jacket, face warm where his fingers brushed. My phone’s buzzing with texts—Maria, Nathan, probably half the ER—but I ignore them all.
Madison’s right. Some things are worth feeling, even if they’re terrifying.
Especially then.
I pull into my driveway, sit in the dark for a moment. Tomorrow I’ll have to face the gossip, the knowing looks, the complications.
But tonight?
Tonight I went on a date with a kind man who makes me laugh. Who brings me coffee. Who transferred to a busier station just for more chances to see me. Who orders excellent wine and tells stories that make me forget I’m supposed to be careful.
Who looks at me like I’m more than just someone’s ex-wife, someone’s mother, someone’s nurse.
