Chapter 8 - Our First Real Date
We waited.
Not for a secret countdown to end.
We waited until I had left Northbridge, completed the transition, and settled into a job where Grant had no authority over my work.
He sought guidance concerning his own obligations.
I asked questions about mine.
Neither of us wanted a technical excuse to ignore an obvious imbalance.
By March, I had been at Common Table for nearly three months.
My calendar was full.
My team challenged me.
A warehouse supervisor in Ohio had informed me that my first proposed dashboard was beautiful and completely useless.
I revised it.
When he approved the next version, I celebrated with grocery-store cake.
That was the week Grant called.
My personal number.
No copied recipients.
No office extension.
“Emma.”
I smiled before I answered.
“Grant.”
“I’d like to take you to dinner.”
There it was.
Simple.
Direct.
No mothers hiding behind curtains.
“No mystery address?” I asked.
“I’ll provide the restaurant, time, full name, and a detailed explanation of any relevant family connections.”
“Very professional.”
“I’ve learned from previous errors.”
I said yes.
Then I spent twenty minutes staring at my closet and finally chose the same dress I had worn to Greenwich.
I repaired the hem properly first.
Grant noticed.
“The dress,” he said when I arrived.
“You remember?”
“I remember most of that evening.”
“Even the apology committee?”
“Especially the apology committee.”
He had chosen a small restaurant downtown.
No private room.
No menu without prices.
No arrangement that made me feel like part of a spectacle.
We talked for three hours.
Not about Dana.
Not mostly about work.
He told me he hated sailing despite growing up near the water.
I confessed that I read the final page of frightening books before deciding whether to continue.
“That undermines suspense,” he said.
“It improves my evening.”
He looked scandalized.
I enjoyed that more than I should have.
Then the conversation grew quieter.
He talked about his father’s illness.
How he had returned to work too quickly afterward because decisions were easier than grief.
I told him how frightened I had been after Dad’s heart attack.
Not only of losing him.
Of realizing how narrow my life had become.
“I knew how to be useful,” I said. “I wasn’t sure I knew how to be happy.”
Grant looked at me across the table.
“I’m working on the same problem.”
The honesty changed the air between us.
He was still a wealthy man.
Still a CEO.
Those facts had not vanished because we liked each other.
But now I could see the person who carried them.
And he was looking at me as though he wanted to know the person beneath everything I had learned to do well.
After dinner, we walked.
The city smelled of rain and roasted food from a street cart.
At a crosswalk, he reached for my hand.
Then stopped.
I looked at him.
“You can ask.”
His expression softened.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
His fingers closed around mine.
No audience applauded.
No chandelier glittered above us.
A cyclist shouted at a taxi.
The light changed.
It was perfect.
At my building, he did not assume he was coming upstairs.
He stood one step below me.
“I’d like to see you again.”
“I’d like that.”
“Even with the sailing issue?”
“I’ll try to be brave.”
He laughed.
Then he looked at my mouth.
“Emma?”
“Yes.”
He kissed me gently.
I had imagined that moment often enough to be embarrassed by it.
Reality was quieter.
Warmer.
Better.
When I went upstairs, my mother had sent a message.
How was dinner?
I considered writing a careful answer.
Instead, I sent:
Good. Please do not order flowers, call Evelyn, or reserve a venue.
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
Too late on calling Evelyn.
I laughed alone in my apartment.
Then Grant texted.
For the record, my mother has already called twice.
I wrote back:
We may need a joint communications policy.
May you like
His answer made me smile for the rest of the night.
Tomorrow. Tonight, I’d rather remember kissing you.
