Sam
Knox texts me at noon the next day.
Pick you up at 6?
I stare at the message for a full minute before responding.
For what?
A date. An actual date. No crew, no shop, no support group. Just us.
My stomach flips.
Okay.
Wear something comfortable. And bring a jacket.
I spend the next six hours overthinking everything.
What does "comfortable" mean? Jeans? A dress? Something in between?
I try on four different outfits before settling on dark jeans, a soft gray sweater, and my leather jacket. It feels like me—not trying too hard, but not like I just rolled out of bed either.
By 5:45, I'm pacing in the living room.
My dad walks through, coffee mug in hand, and stops when he sees me.
"You look nervous," he says.
"I'm not nervous," I lie.
He smirks. "You're pacing."
"I'm just—"
