Chapter 13 - The First Real Date
Six months after I left the mansion, Lorenzo called and asked whether I would like to have dinner with him. Not as an employer. Not as a favor to his mother. Just dinner, with no expectations.
I said yes.
We met at a little neighborhood restaurant where the tables were close together and nobody cared what car he drove. He wore a navy sweater instead of a black suit. I wore a yellow dress I'd bought with money from my own paycheck. For the first ten minutes we were both awkward, which made me like him more.
“I'm better at negotiating contracts than ordering appetizers,” he admitted.
“Then I'll handle the appetizers.”
We shared roasted vegetables, pasta, and a dessert neither of us needed. He asked about my classes and listened as I talked too quickly about adaptive equipment and patient independence. I asked about his business, and he answered plainly, including the parts he was still working to change.
When he reached for my hand across the table, he stopped first. “May I?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
His hand was warm. The moment was simple, and because it was simple, it mattered.
After dinner he walked me to my car. He didn't make a speech about destiny or promise to protect me from every danger. He said he'd enjoyed himself and hoped we could do it again.
“So do I,” I told him.
At home Dad was pretending not to wait up. He sat in the living room with a newspaper he'd already finished. When I walked in smiling, he folded it with exaggerated care.
“Good dinner?”
“Very.”
“Good man?”
I considered the question. “A man trying hard to be one.”
Dad nodded. “That's a better answer than perfect.”
Our relationship grew slowly. We took walks in the park, visited bookstores, and cooked dinner together. We disagreed sometimes. I told him when he was being controlling; he told me when I refused help out of pride. Neither of us won every argument. Both of us learned to apologize.
Evelyn pretended to be surprised when we told her we were dating. “Well,” she said, “I suppose I'll have to buy more pie.”
Then she pulled me aside. “Remember, sweetheart, loving my son doesn't mean giving up your plans.”
“I know.”
“Good. Because I intend to see you graduate.”
May you like
That night Lorenzo gave me a small gift: a fountain pen engraved with my initials. Inside the box was a note: FOR EVERY CHAPTER YOU CHOOSE TO WRITE.
I used it the next morning to sign my scholarship application.
