“That’s it?” Rose snorts, shaking her head, unimpressed. “Tell me you didn’t bore her with medical statistics.”
“Hell, that would be awkward,” Ollie says. “How bad was it on a scale of one through ten? How boring were you, Dad?”
“I wasn’t boring. We chatted about a lot of things.”
“But what things? We need details.” My daughter leans toward the screen, her eyes expanding. I’m glad I don’t date; this is a nightmare.
“Did you snog her?” Ollie chimes in.
I laugh out loud. “None of your business.”
“Oh, that’s a yes,” Rose screeches. Ollie sticks his fingers in his ears. “Dad and Antonia sitting in a tree…”
“Shhh…” I narrow my eyes, hoping to regain some order. “I’m at work. They’ll hear you in the staff lounge.”
“So you did kiss her?” Rose continues to press, unperturbed by my deflection.
I exhale, part of me in disbelief that this conversation is even happening.
My mind flits back to last night. Outside Antonia’s apartment. The tilt of her head, her rising a little, leaning in to me. The softness of her skin under my touch. The warmth of her lips. I could have stood there and watched her all night. She was captivating. All of her, so much strength beneath softness that she’d never shown until then.
Then, how she stood at the window and watched me drive off. How in my rear-view mirror she was still standing there as I turned out of her street. Watching. I felt seen.
“Dad.” Liam’s voice cuts through the fluff. He hasn’t spoken since the call started. “Are you seeing her again?”
They all wait. Silent. Which is unusual. Two look hopeful, one unsure. My heart aches for my youngest son. He’d been so supportive last night, understated but there. I’m so damn proud of him.
“I hope so,” I tell him honestly. “I had a really nice time.”
“I’m glad,” he says.
Rose and Ollie chatter on for a few minutes with next date ideas. Liam and I listen, both of us with half-smiles. Eventually, Rose excuses us all when her friends arrive behind her. No doubt off for a night out.
Last night had been a lot more than I expected. Not just the physical contact, but the time. It had passed unchecked. Once the hurdle of business was cleared, and she dropped her guard a little, conversation flowed naturally.
Then I discovered where we were. In the restaurant she escapes to every Friday. Within minutes of her home. That felt huge not only for me, but for her. Antonia keeps barriers up, keeping her personal life separate. I was honored for a glimpse into her world.
Now, I want to say thank you.
A website is still open that I was looking at earlier, before Bianca and her husband arrived, debating whether it was appropriate. My screen is filled with options, each presented in a white box and tied with a bow.
Pink.
The same pink as her wellies.
Wild but contained. A wave of petals and thorns. The perfect thank you.
Before I can second-guess myself, I hit order. The florist’s details page pops up and asks me to add a message. I stare atthe screen. Picking which flowers was hard enough, but saying something meaningful—that’s worse.
Thank you for a lovely evening. I’m glad you stepped off the edge. Ben.
Simple and to the point, or just plain boring. I’m not sure, but also, I don’t know what else to say. As I begin to question whether I should add kisses to the end, I hit pay now. Almost fifty, and I’m like a teenager debating which corsage to buy for my prom date.
Once the order confirmation sits on the screen, my anxiety drops a fraction. It’s done. And I feel better letting her know where I stand.
Just then, an email pops into my inbox. Julian.
We have a problem. Another protest arranged for the next site inspection. You need to speak again. This isn’t calming.