THE DATE
980 Words
*11 days left.*
Starling’s text came at 6 AM.
`7 PM. Dress casual. No press. No PR. Just us. -S`
Just us.
Two words that terrified me more than the board meeting.
I spent all day at the boutique with Mom.
She was glowing. The $50,000 saved us.
“Where are you going all dressed up?” she asked, watching me try on jeans.
“Nowhere,” I lied.
“You’re going on a date with that boy.”
“Mom—”
“I saw the press conference. He said he loves you.” She touched my cheek. “Be careful with your heart, baby.”
I wasn’t. Not anymore.
---
*7:00 PM. Outside my apartment.*
No Bentley.
A black Range Rover. Starling behind the wheel.
Jeans. Black tee. Leather jacket.
He looked 10 years younger. Like NYU Starling.
“Where’s the driver?” I asked, sliding in.
“Off tonight,” he said. “This is just us.”
The car was quiet.
He drove downtown. No music. Just the sound of the engine and my heartbeat.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
We ended up in Brooklyn.
Not Manhattan. Brooklyn.
In front of a tiny Italian restaurant with string lights and no sign.
“You brought me to Luigi’s?” I stared at him.
“You remember this place?”
Of course I remembered.
3 years ago. NYU. Broke. In love.
We’d come here every Friday. $20 pasta and free bread.
“I can’t afford this place anymore,” I joked. Weak.
“You don’t have to,” he said. Opened my door.
Inside, it smelled like garlic and tomatoes and memories.
The owner, Mr. Luigi, saw us and froze.
“Starling? Jessica? Madonna mia!”
He pulled us into a hug. “You two! I thought— I mean— sit! Sit!”
We got a corner booth.
No cameras. No Elise. No contract.
Just bread. Wine. And 3 years of silence.
“So,” I said, breaking the bread. “Why here?”
“Because I wanted to see if it was still real,” Starling said.
“What?”
“This.” He gestured between us. “Us. Without the money. Without the board. Without the cameras.”
I took a sip of wine. “And?”
“And it is.”
My chest hurt.
“Starling, we have 11 days. Then this ends.”
“I know.” He reached across the table and took my hand.
“But I don’t want it to.”
I pulled my hand back. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you said `We’re done` 3 years ago! Because you left me on read! Because I can’t do this again!”
The restaurant went quiet.
Mr. Luigi pretended not to hear.
Starling leaned forward.
“You’re right. I messed up. I was 25 and scared and my dad had just died and the company was falling apart and I thought if I let you go, I wouldn’t drag you down with me.”
“So you ghosted me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
I stared at my plate. “Why now? Why the contract?”
“Because I saw the foreclosure notice,” he said quietly. “Elise showed me. And I saw your name and I remembered how you used to sew at 3am to pay tuition and I thought... I could fix this. One thing. One thing I could fix for you.”
“That’s not love. That’s guilt.”
“Maybe at first,” he admitted. “But then you signed the contract and looked at me like you hated me and I realized I’d rather have you hating me than not have you at all.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He paid the bill. We walked out.
Brooklyn streets. October air.
No Bentley. We walked.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“What?”
“Do you regret signing the contract?”
I thought about Mom’s shop. About the $50,000. About the kiss on the rooftop.
“No,” I said. “I regret that it has an end date.”
He stopped walking.
“Then let’s get rid of it.”
“What?”
“The contract. 30 days. Let’s tear it up.”
“Starling, you’ll lose the company—”
“I don’t care.”
“YOU HAVE TO CARE!” I yelled. “That’s your dad’s company! That’s your life!”
“And you’re my life,” he said. Quiet.
“So let’s stop pretending. No contract. No 30 days. Just... try. For real this time.”
I stared at him.
This was the moment.
The moment in every romance where you say yes and the music swells.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photo.
Me and Starling at Luigi’s. Through the window.
Caption: `Cute date. Board won’t think so. 11 days.`
Vanessa.
I showed Starling.
His face went hard.
“They’re watching us,” I whispered.
“Let them watch,” he said.
He took my hand. Laced our fingers.
“Come on. I’ll take you home.”
In the car, he didn’t let go.
When we got to my apartment, he walked me to the door.
“Jessica,” he said.
“What?”
“I meant what I said. About trying. For real.”
He leaned down.
And kissed me.
Soft. No cameras. No audience.
Just him. Just me. Just Brooklyn.
When he pulled back, I was crying.
“11 days,” I whispered.
“11 days,” he agreed.
“Then we decide what happens after.”
He kissed my forehead and left.
I closed the door and slid down it.
Because for the first time in 3 years,
I believed him.
- Writer
