Page 32 of No Greater Love
My brain immediately started spiraling. Was this a test? Was she checking to see if I'd make assumptions about her musical preferences based on her race? Was she expecting me to object, to suggest somewhere more "appropriate"? Or was she deliberately choosing a venue that would make me uncomfortable, some kind of social experiment about my biases?
But then I looked at her face and saw the barely contained amusement there, like she was watching me work through exactly this mental gymnastics routine. And I realized… she was messing with me. Not cruelly, but... playfully. Testing my assumptions, yes, but in a way that felt more like gentle teasing than serious judgment.
"A honky-tonk," I repeated carefully.
"Yep. Country music, line dancing, the whole nine yards." Her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed laughter. "Problem with that?"
"No," I said slowly. "No problem at all. I just... wouldn't have expected..."
"What? That I'd like country music?" She tilted her head, her expression innocent except for the devil in her eyes. "What kind of music did you think I liked, Nate?"
"I have no idea what kind of music you like," I said honestly. "We've never talked about it."
"You’re a smart guy." Her smile softened, becoming more genuine. "And now you’ll find out. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock work for you?"
I nodded, still trying to catch up with this conversation. "Seven's perfect."
"Great. I'll text you the address." She turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and Nate? Don't overthink it. It's just dinner and music."
But as I watched her walk away, I knew there was nothing "just" about any of this. Tasha Williams had just turned what should have been a simple dinner invitation into a masterclass in assumptions, privilege, and getting to know someone beyond the surface.
And despite my spinning head and racing heart, I was looking forward to it more than I'd looked forward to anything in years.
* * *
Friday evening found me standing in front of my bedroom mirror, trying to decide between the blue button-down and the gray one for the third time. Paige sat on my bed, offering commentary with the brutal honesty only an eleven-year-old could muster.
"The blue one makes your eyes look nice," she said, not looking up from the friendship bracelet she was making for Madison. "But you've changed shirts four times now, Dad. It's getting weird."
"I'm not nervous," I lied, switching back to the blue shirt.
"You reorganized the spice rack twice today. You only do that when you're really nervous."
I paused in my buttoning. "The spice rack needed organizing."
"Uh-huh." Paige looked up at me with those too-perceptive eyes. "Are you nervous about your date with Tasha?"
"It's not..." I started to say it wasn't a date, then realized that was exactly what it was. "Maybe a little."
"Why? You like Tasha. She likes you. Madison says her mom thinks you guys would be good together."
"Madison said that?"
"Yep. She also said Tasha was really excited about tonight." Paige grinned. "She asked Sophia to borrow some fancy earrings."
The image of Tasha getting dressed for our date, caring enough about it to borrow jewelry, stirred something indefinable inside me.
"Dad?" Paige's voice was softer now. "Are you going to marry Tasha?"
The question caught me completely off guard. "Paige?—"
"Because if you did, I wouldn't mind. She's nice. And she knows about periods and stuff, which is good."
"Noted," I said weakly. "But we're just... getting to know each other."
"Okay." Paige went back to her bracelet. "But just so you know, if you do marry her, I call dibs on being flower girl."
Before I could figure out how to respond to that, my phone buzzed with a text.
