“Is it a date?” Liam says. No edge, just interest.
“No.”
“Is she not the scary one?” Ollie laughs at his own comment. The two boys sneak a glance and smirk.
“No,” I say again. “She’s just professional.”
“And it’s not a date?” Ollie probes. I shake my head. “Who invited who?”
“She invited me.” Both sets of eyes pop wide. “As a thank you.”
“For what?” Liam continues. “Surely, you should be thanking her. She’s the reason we can build Mum’s retreat.”
That makes me pause. The mention of Bex and Antonia is the same sentence. The connection they have without ever knowing each other.
“She is,” I agree. “We are lucky to have met her.”
“Hmm…” Liam returns to his seat. His knife slices the egg into tiny bites before he pops one into his mouth and chews.
“I think it’s a date,” Ollie says like he’s already decided. “What do you think?”
His brother doesn’t even look up. “It’s a date.”
“It’s dinner,” I mutter, although even I’m not convinced. “Now, eat your breakfast.”
***
The day drags. Every time I check my watch, only minutes have passed. The hands crawl as the sun sets.
Finally, my last patient leaves.
The drive home is long. The GPS is constantly advising of delays. Roadwork appears on all sides. Every traffic light turns red as I approach. Maybe it’s a sign that tonight is headed for disaster.
Two hours until dinner. It takes thirty minutes to get to the restaurant across town. I’ll have an hour to get ready if I’m lucky.
Though it’s not a date, so I shouldn’t need more. It’s not like I should want to impress her.
But I do.
The butterflies started after lunch and haven’t stopped. It reminds me of high school, asking the first girl I liked on a date and waiting for days for her to tell me no. At least this time, the only answer I’m waiting on is whether it is a date.
It’s probably important I know.
Eventually, traffic eases, and I make it home. The front door opens before I’m halfway up the path. Ollie comes running out, phone in hand, holding it toward me.
“Rose wants to talk to you,” he says. He thrusts his cell in my face, and my daughter stares out from the screen.
“So about this date,” she half-sings.
“It’s not a date.”
She laughs. So does Ollie. I almost do as well.
“Well, you’re not going dressed like a middle-aged dad on your non-date,” she shoots back. “I’m in charge.”
“First of all, I am a middle-aged dad,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes. “And second, I can cut you off any time I like.”
“I’ll just call back.”