Chapter 1 What’s worse than checking your date’s phone while he’s in the men’s room after you just met for the first time? Getting caught and him blasting me in front of the whole restaurant. It all started with Kyle across from me. He’s the guy I matched with on Bumble who is definitely livelier in emojis than in real life and who adjusts his silverware for the third time since our plates were brought up. He has a clean-shave, and chestnut hair that is slicked back like he watched Grease too many times. His blazer is at least one size too snug, as if he’s trying to make his biceps do most of the talking, and the cologne he’s wearing? Subtle is not in his vocabulary. He must’ve sprayed half the bottle on himself before leaving his apartment. I feel my nose congesting with each inhale. If this persists, I’ll need a sinus flush tomorrow. I thought spring was supposed to be a time of new beginnings, renewals, and rebirth. So why does it feel like my date is anything but? The daffodils popping up along Main Street promised me hope. Even my first graders’ awkward crayon drawings of butterflies seemed like omens of transformation. Apparently, the universe has something else in store for me. His profile had all the green flags I look for: family-oriented, ready to settle down, no bathroom selfies or photos of him hoisting up sea creatures like conquest trophies. Honestly, I thought he might be the unicorn of dating apps—that mythical creature who exists in legend but rarely in the wild dating pool of Maplewood Springs. But in person? There’s a jittery energy coming off him, and every time his phone buzzes—like it’s doing now—his eyes dart to it like a moth to a flame. He says it’s work-related, but a corner of his mouth tugs upward whenever he reads a message. It sure doesn’t look like a business smile to me. More like the kind of smile Andy used to showcase when texting Lindsey behind my back, although I didn’t know it at the time. My appetite wanes at the thought. Stop it, Maisie. I have no reason to doubt him. Maybe he’s just as nervous as I am. I mean, it has been forever since I’ve been on a date, and after the betrayal— Not going there. I give myself a little mental shake, straighten my spine, and stab a meatball like it offended me beyond amend. Marinara sauce splatters onto the white tablecloth like a kindergartener’s first finger painting project gone gloriously wrong. There’s no point in dredging up the past. I must be like a phoenix and rise from the ashes of my last disaster of a relationship and take a chance. Loneliness, away with you! The candle between us flickers, casting a romantic glow on his face and the half-empty basket of garlic knots that Kyle hasn’t touched. A soft murmur of conversation hums from the other tables, and the smell of basil and baked cheese permeates the entire restaurant. This is Via dell’Amore, the crown jewel of Maplewood Springs’ Italian dining scene—which, granted, is a crown with like . . . one tiny jewel. But still, it’s cozy, twinkly, and perfect for first dates. I twirl my linguine around my fork, trying to look both graceful and engaged. “So, what kind of music do you like?” There it is again, the buzz of his phone which makes his hand shoot out like a cobra, snatching the phone off the table this time. A swipe of his thumb, a pause . . . and then that almost imperceptible curve of his mouth again. My teacher-sense tingles—the same one that tells me when a kid is lying about drawing on the wall. Maybe it’s a client? He did mention running an outdoor gear subscription box business in his profile—“Tailored Treks,“ if I remember right. Or maybe it’s another date he’s lined up for later tonight. A backup plan in case I turn out to be a dud. Well, that train of thought derailed fast. I need to focus; all this negativity doesn’t serve me. When he finally puts his phone down, his eyes meet mine, apologetic but distracted. “Sorry, what was your question?” “What kind of music are you into?” I slurp a spaghetti strand that promptly flicks sauce onto my chin. He laughs at me as he points to his own chin. “Not a very graceful eater, are you?” I swipe at the spot with my napkin, feeling the temperature in my cheeks rise to approximately that of the sun. At least hand me something to wipe my face with, jerk. No need to laugh like I’m the punchline of a joke. “I’m a magnet for marinara, apparently,” I say. He takes a long drink of water, like he’s just finished a triathlon instead of laughing his lungs out at my expense. “Mostly rock,” he says between gulps. “And a little country.” His glass clinks as he sets it down, ice shifting like tiny boats crashing into one another. There is a moment of awkward silence as we dig into our dinner. I hate first dates. “What about you?” he asks, twirling his fork through his fettuccine without actually taking a bite. I lean in a little, the scent of garlic and tomato following me like a clingy friend. “I listen to everything—pop, rock, country, jazz—you name it. Music is so universal, there’s something to love about every genre.” My shoulders finally relax. Here’s something I could talk about for hours. Music has been my refuge since I was little, blasting Madonna while my mom taught me to bake cookies, or singing Taylor Swift at the top of my lungs with my younger sister during our bedroom dance parties. “And my dream is actually to be a song writer someday. I’ve been working on some lyrics that my students tell me aren’t half bad. I keep a notebook by my bed for when inspiration—“ Buzz. He doesn’t pick it up this time, just glances at it momentarily before his attention returns to me. I know that look well—the spark of interest in his eyes isn’t aimed at me. Andy used to glance at me this way when he was texting my best friend behind my back. Well, ex-best friend. The unease churning in my stomach tells me I might be right, though I can’t be one hundred percent sure. But I’m a teacher—persistence is my superpower. If I can keep twenty-three first graders engaged during math lessons right before recess, surely I can salvage one dinner date. I take another sip of my white wine, letting the crisp, fruity flavor linger on my tongue. “So have you traveled much?” I ask, determined to find another connecting thread between us. “Been to Colorado for skiing. Mexico once.” Kyle picks up his fork, then sets it down again without taking a bite. “What about you?” “I backpacked through Europe one summer during college—well, ‘backpacked’ is generous. It was more like dragging an enormous suitcase across cobblestone streets while the locals pointed fingers.” The memory bows my lips into a wide smile. “I spent three days in Paris with a fractured toe after my suitcase rolled over my foot going downstairs in the Metro.” I meant it as a joke, but he doesn’t laugh, not even a puff of air escapes his lungs. “That sounds . . . painful,” he says. “The young doctor who treated me asked me to dinner. My toe was the size of an eggplant, but apparently that’s not a deal-breaker in France.” I can tell from his face that I should’ve left that detail out. “Any weird travel stories?” “Not really.” His gaze drifts toward his silent phone. I keep the conversation going to keep him distracted from it. We talk about favorite vacation spots, weird food combinations, childhood pets. He’s nice enough, but the way his eyes keep avoiding mine, and the fact that he’s chugged three full glasses of water already, makes me feel like I’m the side dish and not the entrée. “Wait, wait—you put ketchup on your mac and cheese?” I ask, feigning horror at his food confession. “It’s good!” Kyle defends. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” “I’ll add it to my list of culinary risks, right below ‘gas station sushi’ and ‘mystery meat Monday’ in the school cafeteria.” His expression turns ponderous before he says, “You’re funny.” Seems like my sense of humor tends to boomerang over his head. “I spend my days with six-year-olds. You develop a sense of humor, or you perish.” “Must be fun, though. Teaching kids.” “It is. I love it. There’s this little girl in my class, Lucy, who brings me a rock every single day. Not pretty rocks, mind you. Just random chunks of asphalt from the playground. But she presents them like they’re diamonds.” My chest warms at the thought. “She has this collection on my desk that looks like concrete rubble, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” Kyle nods, but his eyes have glazed over slightly. Our connection is slipping away like sand through fingers. “What about you? Any pets growing up?” I venture, trying to course-correct. “Had a dog. Golden retriever named Max.” He rubs his neck. “Typical, I know.” “I had a hamster that escaped and lived behind our refrigerator for three weeks. We thought he was dead until my mom found him in the pantry, fat and happy after eating his way through our cereal boxes.” Kyle laughs—a real one this time. “What happened to him?” “My sister named him Houdini after that, and he lived to the ripe old age of four. He was an escape artist till the end, though. We found him in my dad’s sock drawer once.” The waiter swoops by, refilling Kyle’s water glass for the fourth time. “So,” I say, trying to inject a little sparkle into my voice, “what’s your dream? The big one. If you could do anything, what would it be?” This is my go-to question. The responses reveal more about a person than any small talk about jobs or hobbies. Does he dream of starting a non-profit? Climbing Everest? Writing a novel? I lean forward, genuinely curious. He shifts in his seat, eyes flitting to his phone again. The muscles in his jaw tense, and he seems impatient. His shoulders square, and suddenly he stands abruptly. “Sorry, I’ll be right back. Have to use the bathroom.” And just like that, he’s jogging past the waiter like he’s struggling to hold in pee. Well, that’s . . . odd timing. My question wasn’t that intimidating, was it? His phone, abandoned on the table, goes off again. The message on the lock screen is upside down but I can still read it. It’s from someone named Kate. His business partner? Or his sister? Or— Oh no. What if it’s happening again? What if it’s his girlfriend or something? I hate it when dread crawls up my spine like a spider, its eight legs leaving tiny pinpricks of anxiety along each vertebra. I stare at his cell like it has sprouted teeth. Suspicion nags my body, and I fight the urge to fling the phone into the breadbasket and pretend I didn’t read the text. Trust, Maisie. That virtue all successful relationships depend on? The virtue I extended to Andy right up until I found him and Lindsey tangled in my sheets. Buzz. Another message pops on the screen: u coming by later? That feeling when intense fear swallows you whole and plummets your stomach to the floor is exactly what I’m experiencing right now, accompanied by intense thundering of my heart against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. The restaurant sounds fade around me—the clinking silverware, the murmuring conversations, the soft Italian music—all of it disappears beneath the rushing of blood in my ears. I shouldn’t have eaten all that pasta. I think I’m going to be sick. I glance over my shoulder at the bathroom entrance before my attention shifts back to Kyle’s phone. I know I shouldn’t snoop, but I can’t shake the feeling that my date is two-timing me. Would it be wrong to confirm what I suspect? My fingers twitch with indecision. The need to be certain overpowers my hesitation, and my hand grasps his phone and— “What are you doing?” Kyle’s voice snaps from behind me. I twist around so fast I almost knock over his water glass. “I’m sorry—I just—“ He snatches the phone from my hand like it’s a baby bird I tried to smother. “You have no business going through my phone.” “I wasn’t going through it—“ My hands flap in the air like I can explain this away with an interpretive dance. “I just saw it buzz and thought—” “You thought what? That you could spy on me?“ His voice spikes high enough to slice through the restaurant chatter. Heads turn. One guy from the booth across the aisle audibly slurps his wine. My face burns. I want to crawl under the table and live there. “I didn’t mean to snoop,” I say, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie. “I . . . the message popped up and . . . who’s Kate?” No point in dancing around it. I need to know. He scoffs. “That’s none of your business.” My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re literally on a date with me and getting texts from another girl—and I don’t get to ask who she is?” “She’s just a friend I work with.” Like I’m going to believe that. “Do you guys work horizontally or vertically?” Kyle’s mouth falls open. “Unbelievable.” “Yeah,” I say. “It is.” As we stare each other down, his jaw ticks, and my chest tightens—I know he’s lying. “It’s called privacy,” he says, like I’m not allowed to ask any questions. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?” “Right,” I mutter, glaring at him. “And honesty? Have you ever heard of that?” “You’re a psycho,” he spits out, loud enough to make the waiter drop a spoon. The entire restaurant goes silent. I swear even the accordion player in the corner misses a note. He throws his hands up. “I’m outta here.” Then he storms out, leaving me to bask in pure, unadulterated embarrassment. The waiter steps forward carefully, like I might lash out and bite. “Excuse me, Miss, would you like the check?” At least he has good sense. “Yes, please.” I press my napkin to my face—not to wipe tears that begin to surface, but to hide for a moment. When the bill comes, I pay for both of us, then rise with what’s left of my dignity and leave with my head hanging low. Outside, the sky is smeared with storm clouds. I reach my car just as thick raindrops begin to patter against the roof. By the time I turn onto Main Street, the heavens have fully opened up. Spring rain lashes the windshield, thunder cracking across the sky like someone’s bowling in the clouds. Windshield wipers squeak across the glass in sad resignation. Stopping at a red light, I ask the heavens, “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I find someone I can actually trust? Someone who wants a meaningful relationship?” The rain doesn’t answer, just pounds harder. I grip the wheel, blinking away tears as I slowly step on the gas. Visibility is low in the storm, but at least no one can see me crying. ...
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