Page 137 of ICED
I turn back one last time. “Lila, sweetie,”
“I get to pick the first movie!” she interrupts, already sprawled across the couch with a blanket and a bowl of dino snacks. Her bossy voice is in full force. “No ‘grown-up’ music during the credits!”
Ollie salutes. “As you command, Captain.”
“And remember the checklist!” I call.
“Printed and laminated,” he replies solemnly, holding up a sheet that is, in fact, laminated.
Owen laughs as we head down the hallway and out of the front door. “I think he was more excited than she was.”
“He probably was,” I admit. “I still feel weird. Guilty.”
“She’s safe,” he says, opening the truck door for me. “And you deserve a night off.”
He holds my hand across the centre console for the whole twenty-minute journey. I love that he’s picked somewhere far enough that I can’t freak out and walk home to Lila, but also near enough that if anything happens, we can get back quickly.
The restaurant is tucked into the corner of a cobbled street, with soft lighting and candles flickering on every table. It smells like fresh herbs and garlic and something gently sweet. A little upscale, a little magical. The kind of place I haven’t let myself imagine in years.
The host greets Owen like an old friend. Apparently, he booked this weeks ago.
Our table is by the window. Owen pulls out my chair for me. He’s dressed in smart trousers and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back a little, his beard a little scruffy and in need of a trim, and he has the softest smile tugging at his lips.
“You really planned this,” I say, startled.
He shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I wanted it to be… something.”
It is. God, itis.
We order a couple of glasses of red wine. I let him choose the food, he picks out a sharing starter and then orders a seafood pasta dish for me and a steak for himself.
And we talk.
About hockey. About baking. About Lila and her increasingly advanced knock-knock jokes.
He tells me about his childhood, his grandmother’s sourdough starter, the year he almost quit hockey for catering college before he got drafted. I tell him about the bakery course I did, about how I loved running before I had a child and the trauma of that still living in my bones, about the version of myself I used to imagine I’d be.
He listens like every word matters.
“You know what’s wild?” I say, sometime between startersand mains. “I used to think the future was a single fixed thing. You miss it once, you’re done. Like it passes you and you just have to watch.”
Owen tilts his head. “And now?”
I shrug. “Now it feels like maybe it loops back around. Just slower. And messier.”
He reaches across the table, brushing his thumb against the inside of my wrist. “I’m really glad it did.”
We share dessert. A chocolate tart so rich it feels scandalous. Two spoons tangled together, knees bumping under the table.
Halfway through, he squeezes my hand and looks me straight in the eye. “I want more nights like this.”
I nod. “Me too.”
And I mean it. All of it.
The porch light is on when we pull up. I expect to feel the usual lurch of anxiety, but it never comes. There’s a note stuck to the door in Ollie’s handwriting, written on the back of a Raptors warm-up sheet.
Baby Bear asleep. No tears. One story (not scary). Milk temp 37.4 (sue me). She says she had fun. So did I. Made myself a bed on your couch so be quiet and no sex noises please ;) Ol x
