Page 128 of The Dating Ban
Nothing fancy. No reservations, no maître d’, no culinary foam. Just me and you and whatever food doesn’t require a glossary.
Say yes, and I’ll be at your door Friday at seven. I promise not to mention coffee. Unless you bring it up first.
Yours, completely
Theo
I drop onto the stairs like my legs have given out beneath me.
Not dramatically. Notdeliberately. Just one of those soft, stunned collapses where your whole body says,Right, we’re doing feelings now. Sit down.
The letter’s still in my hand, shaking slightly.
My throat’s tight. My eyes sting. And then, just like that, a stupid, ridiculous little sniffle escapes me.
It’s not even a sad cry. It’s that quiet, overwhelming kind of joy that sneaks up on you when you’ve been bracing for disappointment and get hit with something tender instead.
He loves me.
Not in some hypothetical,she’s nice to have aroundkind of way. Not because I’m good with Lucy or handy with biscuits. But because I’mme.
Flawed. Fumbling. Flour-covered and far too emotionally invested in small clay gnomes.
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie and pull out my phone with shaky fingers. Christa picks up on the second ring.
“I’m guessing this is either a life emergency or you need chocolate,” she says. “Which is it?”
“He wrote me a letter,” I say, my voice high and wobbly and absolutely not normal.
There’s a pause. “A what?”
“A letter. An actual, handwritten, sincere, heart-melting,Theo letter.”
I hear bedsheets rustling. “Wait. Is this a ‘declaration of feelings’ letter or a ‘please return my soup ladle’ kind of letter?”
“The first one,” I whisper. “He took all the blame. Like, all of it. He said he tried too hard and turned into a stranger and that I didn’t do anything wrong. He said I’ve always been enough.”
“Oh my God,” Christa breathes. “You’re crying, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine,” I sniff. “It’s just a normal physiological reaction to someone writing somethingdevastatingly perfectand saying they love me.”
“Oh babe. Now I’m tearing up.”
I laugh and cry at the same time. “He even promised not to talk about coffee unless I bring it up first.”
“Well, that’s commitment,” she snorts.
“I think I’m in love with him,” I say, finally admitting it out loud. “Like. Actually.”
Christa makes a noise somewhere between a squeal and a celebratory sigh. “I knew it. Iknew it. So, what are you going to do?”
I look down at the letter again. His handwriting’s a little crooked. He crossed out a word in the middle and rewrote it above like a nervous schoolboy. It’s so him, it aches.
“I’m going to say yes.”
36
Three Tubs of Ice Cream
