“Do you want another?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m stuffed.” I mean, I could probably attempt one more cupcake, but I don’t want to make myself sick.
“I’ll get a box for them then.” He flags down our server as he passes by and asks, “To-go box?”
“Right away, sir,” the server answers before he takes off.
“I already paid the bill,” Jordan tells me. “Are you ready to go?”
I almost want to tell him no. That I don’t want to end the most perfect date I’ve ever been on in my life. There’s no real awkwardness when I talk to Jordan. We have this shared history, an easy camaraderie from being friends first, and our friendship started long, long ago. We played catch up while waiting for our dinner to arrive earlier, mostly gossip about people we went to high school with, but we never took it too deep. Or too personal.
We’re probably too scared to try that just yet.
This is a good start, though. This is what I want. Ease into it, find our footing, find our old selves, the ones who made up Tuttle and Amanda, the teen years.
Wait a minute. Maybe we shouldn’t try to find our old selves. We should be focusing on our new and improved selves. I’ve grown up a lot, learned a few things about myself, and now about Jordan too. I don’t want to be the same ol’ Amanda, the one filled with too much self-doubt. The one who sabotaged the only real relationship I’ve ever had and gave up on it way too soon. The one I thought was hopeless from the start, because high school relationships never last, right?
That’s what I thought.
But maybe I thought wrong.
It was easy, getting her to come back to my townhouse. I asked, and she said yes, and we haven’t talked much since then. Together we went in search of my car and I drove us to the Levare housing development, where my place is. I park the SUV in the garage and lead her into my home, stepping back as she comes to a stop in the living room and slowly turns in a circle with her head tilted back.
“How many levels are there?” she asks.
“Three, if you don’t count the garage or the roof deck,” I answer.
“Oh my God.” She stares at me, her mouth hanging open. “Jordan, this is amazing.”
Her words fill me with pride. I can’t help but want to show off. Does that make me an asshole? Well, great. Then I guess I’m an asshole. “I’m glad you like it.”
She walks farther into the living room, stopping at the floor-to-ceiling windows for a moment before she turns to look at me. “How many bedrooms?”
“Three.”
“Bathrooms?”
“Three. Well, two and a half,” I correct.
“Wow.” She’s now in the kitchen, running her fingers along the marble counters, lightly touching the stainless steel refrigerator. “I’ve always wanted a fridge with French doors,” she murmurs almost to herself, opening the refrigerator to reveal…
Nothing much.
“Jordan, you barely have any food in here,” she chastises as she takes in what little I do have. She grabs the milk carton and checks the date. “It’s expired.”
I shrug.
“You have ketchup, expired milk, Kraft American cheese slices and a six-pack of beer.” She shuts the doors, her accusatory gaze meeting mine. “That’s it.”
“I’m not home much.” If ever. And when I am home, I’m not cooking. What’s the point of that when there’s takeout readily available? Uber Eats is the greatest invention ever.
“I’ll say.”
She continues her inspection of my home, examining the giant closet across from the half bathroom, stepping out onto the balcony so she can admire the view. I let her do her thing, following her up the stairs to the second level so she can check out the two bedrooms that only have beds and nothing else, the bathroom, and the huge hall walk-in closet that is completely empty.
“This house has so much storage space.” She shakes her head as she closes the closet door. “I would die for this.”
If she would’ve stuck with me, this would be hers. She’d be the queen of my castle and I would’ve worshipped at her perfect feet every single day for the rest of our lives.