My mom got home and we had our dinner/breakfast before she went back upstairs, like nothing was off in the slightest.

The whole time, I felt like the telltale heart of my lies was thudding under my feet. She was back out again for our afternoon of browsing for everything I’d need for my dorm. Move-in checklists and questionnaires arrived every day, filling up both our inboxes and sharpening the reality of me leaving.

The white-knuckle grip in my chest loosened by the time we pushed the cart back to the car. Back at home, I finished up some research on my final paper for English. The ticking clock began again. Dare was coming over in less than 2 hours.

I started the risotto, ready for the torture. He’d be sitting in my house. At the table behind me. We’d be alone. Again. This time both of us completely awake. My head was spinning just like my wooden spoon around the bottom of the pan. I added more broth, hoping to drown out the thundering in my head.

* * *

The door closed after my mom left, and I hurried washing her dishes and getting everything ready. When everything was dried and back into the cabinets, I took the stairs three at a time and changed.

I settled on my green-and-white polka dot skirt and a white t-shirt. It was a little nicer than usual, but not like I was trying too hard. Not like I’d prepared a meal just for him, and made sure to buy extra shrimp, and cycled through five outfits to get to this easy casual look.

Checking the time again, I grabbed two plates and turned the stove back on, hoping reheating didn’t ruin the risotto. Dare choking down a plate of glue-like food wasn’t how I wanted this evening to go. The little voice piped up asking me how exactly I did want it to go, but I locked that voice in my mental closet and jammed a chair under the door to keep it there.

I added butter and garlic to the shrimp pan. Sizzles and pops accompanied the extra boost of good smells filling the kitchen.

The solid knock on the front door whipped me out of the frenzy in my head. I wiped my hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven door and rushed out of the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath in front of the closed door, I smoothed my hands down the front of my skirt. Expectation and anticipation hurtled through my veins like someone had signed me up for the track and field team without letting me know.

Another knock.

Oh, yeah, I actually needed to open it to let him into the house. With another glance behind me, I grabbed the door knob and tried to look as casual as possible, but my heart vaulted straight for my throat when I saw him.

His hair was slicked back on the sides, giving him a slight pompadour at the top. It wasn’t overdone, though, not caked with product. He was in a button-down shirt and jeans. The fabric stretched over his chest and arms. His smile and the single daisy he held out to me made me feel like I should be standing on a balcony, not at the top of my three front steps.