Page 61 of The Promises We Broke
"Hi," I said, then immediately felt like an idiot. Hi? That was the best I could do?
"Is everything okay? Did you hurt yourself at the ranch?" She stepped closer, her professional instincts kicking in as she scanned me for obvious signs of injury.
"No, no. I'm fine. Physically, I mean. My leg's good, shoulder's good, everything's..." I gestured vaguely at myself. "Good."
She raised an eyebrow. "Okay. So...?"
This was it. This was the moment where I either found my courage or spent the rest of my life wondering what might have been.
"Would you like to get coffee with me?" The words came out in a rush, all tangled together.
Billie blinked. "Coffee?"
"Or tea. Or lunch. Or..." I ran a hand through my hair, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I'm asking you out, Billie. As friends, I mean. Like we talked about. Being friends."
"You're asking me out as friends," she repeated slowly.
"Yes. No. Maybe." I took a breath and tried again. "I'm asking if you'd like to spend time together outside of professional settings. To see if we can actually manage this friendship thing we talked about."
She was staring at me like I'd grown a second head, and I was beginning to think this had been a terrible idea when her expression softened into something that looked almost like fondness.
"You came all the way over here to ask me out for coffee," she said.
"I figured if I called or texted, you might think it was about physical therapy stuff. I needed to ask you in person."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You hobbled over here on crutches to ask me out for coffee."
"Is that... is that a yes? Or are you just documenting my pathetic attempt so you can tell the story later?"
"It's a yes, Gage." Her smile widened, and suddenly she looked like the girl I remembered instead of the careful professional she'd become. "I'd like to get coffee with you."
Relief flooded through me so fast I almost forgot how to breathe. "Really?"
"Really. But not during work hours," she added quickly, glancing around the waiting area where several people were pretending not to listen to our conversation.
"Of course. When works for you?"
"Saturday morning? Books and Beans?"
I was grinning like an idiot, but I couldn't seem to stop. "Saturday morning. It's a date."
"It's coffee," she corrected, but she was still smiling.
"It's coffee," I agreed. "Between friends."
"Between friends."
We stood there for another moment, both of us smiling and neither of us quite sure how to end this conversation, until the receptionist cleared her throat.
"Billie? Your next patient is here."
"Right." She turned back to me, her cheeks slightly pink. "Saturday morning, then."
"Saturday morning."
I walked out of that rehabilitation center feeling lighter than I had in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe eleven years.
Booker was right. Sometimes the simplest solutions were the best ones.
