Page 25 of Cluelessly Yours

“I didn’t know old people could move this fast!”

You name it, he says it, but I’m too wounded to care. My southern lips needan ice bath pronto, and mentally, I need the respite that only the barrier of a locked door can provide.

By the time I manage to get us home, I’m sweating, my beaver is still aching from playing BDSM with a dog leash, and Grant’s given up on trying to understand what kind of psychotic break he just witnessed his mother suffer.

Instead, his attention is on watching cartoons while I make his requested lunch of macaroni and cheese, grapes, and broccoli with ranch.

I pour the dry pasta into the now-boiling water and grab the grapes and broccoli out of the fridge. The entire time, I’m still mentally berating myself for the outright ridiculous scene that just played out for all of Central Park to see.

Visuals of Noah’s concerned face and the empathy in Blondie’s eyes try to filter into my mind, but I shake my head, refusing to experience another replay of the embarrassment.

Instead, I grab my phone off the counter and decide to make my grocery list for the week as I wait for the pasta to cook.

A text notification from earlier sits waiting, and my hand quivers gently as I open and read it.

Gavin: I’ll be in New York all next weekend. Dinner Sunday? I’d love to see you again, Sammy. PS: I’ll even bring an umbrella just in case.

Sunday, May 1st

Call up Michael J. Fox and get the DeLorean ready because I am at a fancy Italian restaurant, and I still haven’t convinced myself it’s not because I’ve gone back in time.

The ambiance reminds me of classic, 1950s Italy with distressed walls and chandeliers and picture frames filled with previous guests and nostalgic memorabilia, and the soft music playing beneath the chatter of the dining room is that of classic crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.

And I’mdating, and there areno kids.

There absolutely has to have been a short circuit in the space-time continuum. Right?

Vincenzo’s is located in Lower Manhattan and is a New York staple that’s had famous guests like Denzel Washington and Lenny Kravitz dine in the private room at the back. And apparently, the owner is vehemently against reservations, but Gavin Evans, my date, has managed to get one.

And he’s gone to all this trouble because I love pasta.

Impressive, I know.

Gavin smiles at me from across the table as he takes a drink of red wine, and I return the gesture, even though, internally, I’m at war with myself.

Shockingly, it’s not because of the idea of being on a date. Compared to last time, I’m actually starting to find some sense of peace with it.

It’s the mom part of me that’s riddled with guilt, wondering why I agreed to this on aSunday.

As one of my only off days, and the only one when the boys are off school too, it’s usually a lazy day for the three of us. We’ve made a habit of going to Central Park in the afternoon and spending the rest of the evening eating takeout and watching a movie together all snuggled up on the couch.

But tonight, because of my choice to go out, they’re spending it with Zoe instead of me.

Brooke would probably tell me to cut the shit and stop making myself feel guilty for taking time for myself.You deserve to be your own person, I can hear her saying in my head.Just as long as it’s with Noah, her imaginary voice adds.

Ugh. I just love that even my inner monologue Brooke likes to torture me.

A server in a crisp white collared shirt and black apron tied around his waist stops by our table to drop off our plates of food—veal parmigiana for Gavin and rigatoni Bolognese for me.

“Everything look okay?” he asks, and I smile down at my plate of carbs and cheese.

“Looks great,” I compliment, and Gavin chimes in with a similar sentiment.

The server refills our wineglasses and heads off to his next table, leaving Gavin and me to our food and conversation. Well,sort ofconversation. The only conversation topics that come to mind for me are something funny one of my boys did or said, and since I’m trying not to be that person, my part in the exchange of words has been a little lacking.

“What—?”

“How—?”

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