Page 22 of Since the Day We Left

“Go, enjoy yourselves,” Arthur said as he collected his supplies.

Miles turned to Wendi. “I need to get my dad set up at home. I could meet you there in probably half an hour?”

Just me and Miles?

A date?

No—well, maybe?

Just two ... friends? Acquaintances with ... potential?

Breathe, girl. It’s only dinner.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” she said, impressed by how casual her voice sounded despite her quickening pulse.

She watched as Miles helped gather his dad’s things, offering a few parting words and a brief smile to Arthur. As they headed for the door, Wendi released a sigh. There was something about watching Miles walk away that made her realize how much she wanted him to stay.

Max trotted alongside the guys, tail wagging with such hope that Wendi almost felt guilty keeping him from an adventure he clearly thought he deserved. “Max, I’m sorry, boy,” she said, scooping him up.

Miles grinned, reaching over to give Max a pat. “We’ll see you again soon.”

Arthur nodded at the dog. “You keep an eye on things here, okay?”

Once they’d left, she set Max down and blew out a breath. One thought hit:What the heck am I wearing?

Red top? Too formal.

Teal V-neck? Still too much.

Hmm. What if I wear it with jeans?

When was the last time she’d worried this much about what to wear? High school? College? That blind date a year ago that had ended with her eating dessert alone?

Ugh, why is this so hard?

Wait. Would changing be weird? Or would not changing be worse?

They’d already seen her in this outfit. Changing now would make it look like she was trying too hard—like it was a date. Was it? No, she was probably overthinking it. Again.

But she could at least freshen up her makeup. Or would that be too obvious? It was just a normal dinner. With a sweet man who’d left Atlanta to take care of his dad. With a man whose arms had no right being that distracting.

The door swung open.

Miles reappeared, one hand braced on the frame. “Sorry, where’d you say we’re meeting?”

8

Miles

Milesproppedhimselfupagainst a streetlamp outside Phil’s Diner. A neon sign hummed above, throwing a red glow onto the sidewalk as the breeze carried salt and the smoky scent of grilled onions and fries.

His fingers brushed over the spiral shell in his pocket, tracing its familiar ridges. He’d been standing here for fifteen minutes already, still not entirely sure what to call this evening with Wendi. Not a date, exactly—they hadn’t used that word. Just dinner. Simple enough. But that didn’t explain the nervous energy coursing through him or why he’d changed shirts twice before leaving.

Whatever this was, dating hadn’t exactly been a highlight reel lately. There was the Atlanta fitness influencer who’d mistaken their date for a podcast monologue. And the woman from the bar who’d lost interest the second she’d realized he wasn’t fighting fires anymore. And he couldn’t forget the lady from the app who’d turned from charming to concerning—showing up at his apartment unannounced after he’d bailed twice, then flooding his phone with messages for weeks after.

He checked his phone again—7:15.

Maybe she changed her mind?

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