As my cheeks flush, I grab my keys, shove on my coat, and follow him to his car. His blue Jetta is parked beneath the streetlamp at the end of my empty driveway. I get in, not sure where we’re headed, or to what type of cuisine—I guess some questions slipped my mind—but I’m prepared to participate nonetheless. He drives us to a restaurant called Namaste Nepal, with music I don’t recognize playing in the background the whole way. I wonder if this has all been a mistake. Conversation stalls, mostly due to my error, and our awkward silences are instead filled with nervous laughter. By the time we reach our destination, Milo seems almost glad for an excuse to get out of the vehicle.

Good fucking going. The thought twists my stomach. This was a bad idea. I should’ve known better than to think I could go on a date with someone as beautiful as Milo Reid. It was a miracle we got to this moment in the first place, but all I’ve done is position myself for embarrassment. I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve known better. Maybe if I make an excuse now, he’ll drive me home. I could even take a Lyft if he’d rather not get back in the car with me.

“May I?” he asks, and I look up to see him holding out his arm.

Ask him to take you home.

“Of course,” I say, and slip my hand into his elbow. The simple gesture melts my insides.

As luck would have it, though, we are doomed to face yet another obstacle in our rocky adventure. The wait time is forty minutes for a table—which puts me dangerously close to my no-meals-after-seven rule. I can overlook this given it wasn’t Mr. Reid’s intention, but I’m beginning to wonder if fate would rather Milo and I not end up together.

Call it quits now.

After putting our name on the list, Milo wanders back outside to me. I stare at the ground, summoning the wherewithal to have him cancel. This isn’t right. More and more things are just going to keep going wrong. And the longer this goes on, the more disappointed I’ll be when it doesn’t work out.

“Well,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat. “I royally fucked that one up, didn’t I? Thought I could wing it without a reservation.”

I give an appreciative smile. “Who knew Sundays were so popular?”

“I suppose every night’s popular in a city.” He leans against the wall beside me. “It’s getting colder.”

He wants to go home too.

Milo smiles conspiratorially and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “It’s a good excuse for us to get closer.”

And with that simple gesture, he improves my mood tenfold. My skin tingles, even though there are several layers of clothing between us—how am I getting a semi-erection from the barest of contact? I dare to lean into him just a little bit, savoring the fact that he wants to be close to me.

“Was this your plan all along?” I ask. “Pick a busy restaurant so I’d be forced to wait outside, relying on you for warmth?”

“Damn, I was hoping you weren’t clever enough to figure that out.”

“If you were looking for tall, hot, and stupid, you might be barking up the wrong tree.”

“At least you’re one of those three.”

“Let me guess, tall?”

I love the sound of his laugh, loud and carefree. It makes me feel like I’ve done something special for him, like I’ve personally made his day a little brighter. Standing there laughing with his arm around me, I can’t help but join in. If I were a bystander watching us be so unabashedly saccharine, I’d probably projectile vomit all over us.

He takes my arm and pulls me away from the building. We comb the surrounding downtown area for Christmas lights. There aren’t many, but a few businesses have put in serious effort to add festivity to their atmosphere. A vintage junk store at the end of the block even has a snowy landscape painted on their windows complete with chubby snowmen and a pine forest. It takes a few minutes, but the cynical voice in my head retreats to the background as I let Milo lead me from one block to another. By the time we find ourselves back at Namaste Nepal, my cheeks are pinched with cold, but I am thoroughly enjoying myself.

The moment we step through the doorway, however, I’m hyperaware of all the eyes around us. Diners crowd the long room, chatting quietly beneath the numerous colorful lanterns. Anytime a pair glances at us, I feel the instinctual urge to pull my hand away. Realistically, none of them care—and I repeat this belief to myself—but certain mentalities have been etched into my skull and cannot be erased.

“You, uh…don’t go out very often, do you?” Milo asks after the host seats us.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’re just a bit jumpy.”

It would appear I’m also a bit conspicuous.

Trying to dodge having to answer, I ask, “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Go out very often.”

Milo laughs. “Not a ton. No.”

A tragedy, given how attractive I find him.

He clears his throat. “Actually, it’s been a while. I was in a serious relationship that had a messy end, unfortunately—and I needed a long break afterward. It was—well, let’s just say we broke up more times than we got back together, and that’s that.”

If he needed as long of a break as he said he did, I’m surprised to hear him sound so jovial about it now. I wonder exactly what happened? But even I know it’s too soon for a question that personal. Another part of me is also secretly flattered that—if he’s telling the truth, which I’m willing to believe he is—I was somehow the one to end his single streak.

A waitress comes by to pour us water. When she leaves, I raise my glass toward him. “Well, then here’s to leaving the past behind.”

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He tilts his glass my way and we clink above the candle on the table. “Amen to that.”

Amen.

Not everyone who says “amen” is religious—and not everyone who’s religious is Aunt Evora. I mentally shake myself. God, I need to stop getting hung up on such minutiae. That’s the type of shit that’ll drive him away.

“So,” he says after downing the entirety of his ice water. Thirsty fucker. “You work for Corner House, right?”

“How’d you figure that out?” I ask.

“I might have seen which floor you went to Friday.”

“Ah, so you stalked me?” Glad to know I’m not the only one. My heart flutters again.

“I wouldn’t say ‘stalking’ so much as ‘showing interest.’”

“Right. Well, your interests are correct.”

“How did you get into that?”

How much time do we have? Already, I’m mentally paring down the details to a story length that feels manageable—something that gives enough substance to satisfy his question without overstaying its welcome. I know I’m more than capable of going on long enough for him to lose interest.

“Truth be told, I started out wanting to be a big bad literary agent, but I found that I lacked some of the necessary skills for that job. Namely, the ability to network. There were a lot of twists and turns along the way, but I wound up at Corner House.”

“I see.”

The waitress brings us our drinks; we’ve both ordered sodas. Seeing as I’ve never been here before, I ask for a few more minutes to decide on my meal. Smiling graciously, the waitress leaves again and I open my menu for the first time. Milo continues. “There was a brief—brief—moment in time when I thought about writing a novel myself.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you?”

“Well, I started, but the process became too daunting after a while. I was afraid. I couldn’t figure out where it was going, and that frustrated me.”

“So you gave up?” I ask with what I hope is a wry smile.

“I’m very good at immediacy,” he says.

I shrug. “It’s probably for the best.”

Milo bursts into laughter.

“Wow,” he says, “I guess you’re not the type for positivity.”

“What? I’m just being honest!”

“How so?”

“It sort of comes with the line of work,” I say. “If you saw the number of rejections I send—I beg most people not to fall in love with writing. She seldom loves back.”

He crosses his arms, sitting back to observe me with a silent smile. What I wouldn’t give to have him always look at me that way: every morning, every time I sit down to eat, anytime we might go for a walk—I know I’m getting ahead of myself. That sort of thing takes time. Certainly more than one date. But it’s the sort of thing I can’t help thinking. Nobody has ever looked at me the way he does now—affectionate, desiring, wholly content. It’s humbling and empowering at the same time.

And almost immediately, I feel a sense of loss. I don’t know why or what brings it on, but it spreads inside me like doves released from a cage—flying up through my esophagus into my mouth and my sinuses and my brain. This won’t last. That’s what I’m telling myself, I realize. Something will come between this feeling and my hopes. Whether it’s him losing interest once the immediacy is over or me discovering some part of him that I don’t like—however unlikely that might seem right now. But there will be that intangible something.

Why am I doing this to myself? It’s torture.

I am used to hearing voices in my head. Not the result of mental illness, I don’t think, but manifestations of my warring thoughts. The voices all sound like me, and that’s how I’ve convinced myself I don’t need to seek help.

Sometimes, one will ask, Are you ever going to be happy?

And sometimes another voice responds, Why do you think you deserve to be?

“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asks. She’s standing right beside me.

Shaken from my opaque fog of internalized woe, I look down at my menu. “Yeah, I—Uh, I’ll have this,” I say, pointing to the first item I see: a chicken vindaloo dish.

“Excellent, that’s a great choice,” she assures me, then turns to Milo.

I’m still reeling from the chasmic feeling in my stomach that’s continued for far longer than usual when my phone buzzes from inside my pocket. As Milo orders, I pull the device out and check the notifications.

It’s a text from Felicia.

Where the hell are those recommendations?

I guess her well of sympathy has officially dried the fuck up. More concerning, though, is that there’s clearly been some miscommunication here.

I thought I sent them to your email, I respond, a frown creasing my brow. They should be in her inbox. She’s never had trouble receiving my emails before.

I open my mail app to check my sent messages.

Nothing there, Macuja.

My stomach drops as I feel my face growing hot.

“Is everything okay?” Milo asks once the waitress leaves again.

“Shit. Yeah, I’m sorry, just give me a sec,” I say, scrolling through my outgoing mail though I know that if what I’m looking for is there, I would’ve seen it by now. As time goes on and I start my search over several more times, the horrific realization begins to set in. I never sent her my picks for next issue. How is that possible? I know I did it—or at the very least I intended to.

“Felix?”

“I need a minute.”

I specifically left the park with the intent to go home and mail Felicia my selections. I remember that for a fact, because it was the last time she’d texted me. I’d gone straight home, hadn’t I? And I’d—I’d—

Memory fails me. I can’t actually place sending the email, or making my picks, or even getting home, for that matter. But how can that be? That was today. Today. Mere hours ago. I know memory can be spotty, but even then, I should have some recollection from this afternoon. Something to pinpoint what I’d done between deciding to leave the park and choosing my outfit for tonight’s date.

The date. Fuck.

I look up at Milo, who’s watching me with concern. The room is spinning now, and I can feel perspiration clinging to my upper lip. Can he see it? Is it shining in the light from that beautiful, bright—hot—lantern? It’s really giving off way too much heat now. Sweltering, though I was comfortable only moments ago.

What happened to those missing hours?

I really have no fucking clue.

Deciding I need a moment to step outside, get some fresh air, and make some uneducated guesses as to which of my flagged submissions I’d pick, I make to get out of my seat.

“If you don’t mind, I need to—”

A shadow scurries past the table and I leap back in surprise, letting out a shocked yelp in the process.

Alarmed, Milo’s eyes widen, and I notice a few heads turning our way.

I glance around but there are no animals in the dining area. Nobody else seems to have seen the shadow either. And if it’s hiding beneath an occupied table, it certainly isn’t causing any ruckus. I look back at my date, heart racing.

“Felix, are you okay?” he asks, holding out a hand.

I really can’t say at the moment. I hold my breath, trying to calm myself, but it just ends up coming out in ragged gasps. Even after the shock of seeing the darting shadow has worn off—even after I’ve dismissed it as a trick of the light—I can’t get my heartrate to slow. Too many things compound at once and my body won’t let them go.

Milo comes to my side of the booth, and as he slides in beside me, he takes my hand. At this—our first skin-to-skin touch—I feel myself melt back into the present moment. My mind relaxes its stranglehold on the email that I still need to send as soon as possible to my boss. I sit back down on the cushion, eyes lingering on the place where our skin connects, and the edge inside me begins to soften.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, so much closer this time.

I don’t answer with words, though I give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“I can take you home,” he says.

“Our food—”

“I can cancel the order or come back to pick it up.”

He’s being ridiculously kind. In all honesty, I should go back home. I could glance over the flagged submissions first before responding to Felicia. It would work better than trying to recall enough fractured details to write back to her on my phone. But a larger part of me doesn’t want to leave this place, this date. I don’t want to ditch him. Not now that I’ve somehow managed to stumble into something that feels remarkable. I just want to go back to that moment where he was smiling at me and everything felt great.

But that moment has passed.

I know what the responsible thing to do would be.

“No,” I say, “but thank you for offering. If you don’t mind though, I need to step outside to send this really important email I forgot to send earlier.”

Milo nods before going back to his side of the table while I eke myself out of the booth. I can tell he’s still somewhat skeptical, but willing to trust my judgment.

At least someone does.

Now which of the submissions do I remember?