“Trust me….He likes you,” I say, picturing the two of them one day dating and telling the story of how they met, back in the first grade in Miss Josie’s class. Stranger things have happened.
“And guess what?” I continue in my most excited, I-have-a-big-secret voice.
“What?” she asks, wiping away her tears and looking at me with wide, trusting eyes.
“I like you, too,” I whisper in her ear. “A lot.”
Edie’s tears instantly clear. She gives me a big smile before scampering off, happy again.
“Teacher’s pet,” Sydney says, elbowing me.
“Guilty,” I say, smiling. “She’s just so sweet…like her mother, actually.”
“Too bad her dad sucks,” Sydney says.
I shrug, feeling blissfully indifferent to Edie’s dad, then say, “I don’t know. Will’s really not that bad….He’s just a little lame….I’m glad I’m not married to him.”
“Wow. You really have made progress,” Syd says.
“Yeah. I guess I have,” I say, thinking of what a strange but powerful turn my life has taken since the first day of school, back when I feared Edie, despised Will, and pinned all my hopes on some man I might never meet.
—
A COUPLE OF hours before our reservation at Sotto Sotto, my favorite Italian restaurant in Atlanta, Pete calls me, asking if he can come pick me up. I tell him I appreciate the offer, but that it makes no sense for him to drive all the way to Buckhead when he lives in Inman Park, so near the restaurant. “How about I pick you up?” I say.
He starts to protest, insisting that he doesn’t mind the driving, but I cut him off and say, “When will you learn you’re not dealing with a traditional girl here?”
Pete laughs. “Okay. Good point. Do you want to come early for a drink?”
“Sure,” I say. “Seven?”
“Perfect. Eighty-seven Druid Circle…just past Krog Street Market.”
I scribble the address on a notepad and say, “Got it. See you soon.”
“Can’t wait,” Pete says.
—
A FEW MINUTES past seven, I am standing on the front porch of Pete’s charming Craftsman bungalow, ringing his bell. The door swings open immediately, and there he stands, looking cuter than ever.
“Hi,” I say, smiling.
“Hi, you.” He smiles back at me, then steps aside, holding the door. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say, stepping inside.
He gives me a hug. I can’t tell if he’s wearing cologne or if it’s just soap, but I love his scent.
“You smell nice,” I tell him as we separate. “And I like your hair.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” he says, running one hand through it, looking endearingly self-conscious. “I actually meant to get a haircut today….”
“No, I really like it,” I say. “I like a little longer hair on guys….”
“On guys, huh?” Pete says teasingly.
“On you,” I clarify.
He smiles and thanks me, then leads me to his kitchen, where a very basic plate of cheese, crackers, and green grapes awaits us. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of wine? A beer?”
“I’d love a beer,” I say, sitting at his small round table. I watch him pull two SweetWater beers out of the fridge. He opens them, then pours them into chilled mugs from the freezer. He hands me mine, then sits beside me.
“So how was your day?” he says.
I give him the highlights, as well as a few trivial lowlights, then ask about his day. He reports that it was great, then tells me an inspiring story about one of his favorite clients—a high school tailback recovering from a torn meniscus. As he talks, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him in a bad mood.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” he asks.
I look at him, confused, and he quickly clarifies. “When you were in New York…you told me you had something you wanted to talk about?”
“Oh, right,” I say, stalling, thinking how long ago that phone call seems. Although part of me wants to tell him everything, right at this moment, with no filter whatsoever, another, greater part of me simply wants to go to dinner with the guy I like.
“It was a couple of different things, actually…but we can talk about that stuff later,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Should we head out?”
“Sure,” he says. “Are you driving?”
“Yep,” I say, smiling.
“You opening my car door, too?”
I laugh and say absolutely.
—
TWO HOURS LATER, after a lighthearted, yet still romantic dinner, I pull back up to the curb in front of Pete’s house and put my car in park. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. And thank you for dinner,” I say.
“It was my pleasure,” he says, biting his lower lip as he shoots me a serious glance. “Can you come in for a minute? I promise I won’t keep you long—I know you have to get up early.”