Chapter 33: The Double Date
Saturday evening crept in soft and gold through the kitchen windows, and I stood at the counter with flour on my forearms, layering the last sheet of pasta into the baking dish. The lasagna had taken me most of the afternoon. I had made it twice before, a recipe I'd dug up from a cookbook Margaret had gifted me, and the first one had come out lopsided and weeping. The second one had held. I slid it into the oven and wiped my hands on the towel hanging from the oven door, then stepped back to survey the dining room through the doorway.
The table glowed under four taper candles I'd set in mismatched brass holders. I'd found them at the salvage shop in town, alongside the truck parts Allan and I had been hunting for months. They were dented and tarnished, but candlelight forgave all sins. I'd layered a white tablecloth over the pine surface, set out the good plates, the ones with the blue trim that had come with the house, and folded napkins into rough rectangles because my attempt at a fan shape had embarrassed me. A half-empty bottle of red wine stood breathing near Allan's seat, and the windows were open a crack to let in the evening air.
I smoothed the front of my blouse. Cream linen, three-quarter sleeves. Dana had picked it out with me last week at the boutique on Main Street, insisting it brought out the blue in my eyes, and I'd worn it twice since because it made me feel, for reasons I couldn't name, like a woman who had her life in order.
Allan's boots sounded on the porch and the screen door creaked open. He came in carrying a grocery bag and a bouquet of sunflowers, and he smiled when he saw the table. "Sabrina, this looks like a magazine."
"Don't oversell it. Dana might think I'm trying to compete."
He set the flowers on the counter and came around, pulling me into an easy hug. His uniform shirt smelled of the station and faint cologne, and his stubble brushed my temple. "Ellis texted. They're five minutes out."
"Good. I set the oven timer for thirty." I pulled back and studied him. "You changed out of your uniform."
"Burgundy button-down, dark jeans, and I even ironed the collar. Did I overdo it?"
"Yes. But you look wonderful."
He laughed, low and warm, and kissed my forehead. Then he busied himself decanting the wine and I checked the garlic bread under the broiler, and for a few minutes the kitchen was just the comfortable quiet of two people moving around each other. I caught myself humming, and stopped. The old Justin had never hummed. But the song had come out of my mouth before I could think, something soft and nameless, and Allan didn't seem to notice. Maybe he did. Maybe he just liked it.
Headlights swept the front window. Two cars pulled up, actually one, a low silver hatchback I recognized as Ellis's, and Dana spilled out of the passenger side with a bottle of wine wrapped in a ribbon. Ellis walked around to open the gate for her, and they were laughing at something before they reached the porch.
Allan got the door. Dana came in first in a green sweater, the one she had saved, and burgundy lipstick that I could tell had taken her an hour to perfect. Her smile split her face when she saw the table. "Sabrina, this is gorgeous. You did all this?"
"I had help." I gestured at Allan. "He chopped the wood for the fireplace. We're not using the fireplace. He also bought the candles."
"It made a nice display," Allan said mildly.
Ellis shook my hand with both of his, a stocky man with a gentle grip, and told me the place smelled like his grandmother's kitchen. Dana shot him a look that was half mischief, half tenderness, and he put his hand on her shoulder as they settled into their seats.
The lasagna came out golden on top, bubbling at the edges. I cut it into thick squares and served, and Allan poured the wine, a Cabernet, deep red as the candlelight. For a while there was only the clink of forks and the low murmur of the table, the slow rhythm of a good meal. Ellis told a story about a goat that had gotten loose on County Road and bitten a mailbox. Dana described her shift at dispatch, the Sunday caller who had reported a UFO only for it to turn out to be the Goodyear blimp. They traded jokes about the department, about Doberman, the cranky sergeant who ran the evidence room, and Allan laughed harder than I'd seen him laugh in weeks, his hand resting on my knee under the table.
Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the garlic bread, the conversation softened. Ellis asked how the truck was running, and Allan launched into a warm speech about the carburetor rebuild, the timing chain, the way the engine had coughed and settled into a purr, and Ellis nodded along with genuine interest. Dana watched him the whole time, her chin resting on her palm, and I caught her eye across the candle flames. She raised an eyebrow. I raised mine back. Two women who had found their way here from different roads entirely, and both of us stupidly, wonderfully happy.
I let myself sit in the moment. The wine on my tongue, the warmth in the room, the man beside me whose hand had found mine under the table. It was all so mundane. So ordinary. And once, not so long ago, ordinary had been the one thing I'd never have again.
Dana set down her fork and leaned back, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Okay. I have to know. What's the secret to this lasagna? Is it the wine in the sauce? Is it the cheese blend?"
"Three kinds of cheese," I said. "And I sing to it while it bakes."
"The way she bangs the rack with a spoon to check the doneness," Allan added, "is honestly the most confident thing I've ever seen."
They all laughed. I ducked my head, pleased, and topped up Dana's glass. The candle flames swayed when Ellis crossed to adjust the window a crack, and outside the last of the sunset had bled into a deep violet sky. The hills were dark shapes against the stars.
"Dana tells me you're the one who convinced her to ask me out," Ellis said, startling me.
I blinked. "She didn't need much convincing. She just needed a push."
"Either way." He raised his glass. "I've been trying to work up the nerve for three years. You somehow managed to solve it in one evening."
I looked at Dana. She was staring at him with a soft, startled smile, as if she hadn't expected him to say that out loud. "I'm glad it worked out," I said. "You two are good together."
Allan squeezed my hand. "She has a gift for that," he said quietly. "Seeing what people need."
I swallowed against the sudden thickness in my throat. The candles blurred at the edges and I blinked, hard, until they came back into focus. "Well," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt, "I'm glad everyone has good company tonight."
Ellis and Dana traded a look. Then Dana grinned, wide and unguarded, and raised her glass. "To good company," she said. "And to the woman who made all of it happen."
We drank. The wine was warm on my tongue, and Allan's thumb traced a circle on the back of my hand, and I let the night hold me.
The last plates went into the sink with a soft clatter, and the four of us drifted into the living room, Ellis and Allan settling onto the couch while Dana lingered by the kitchen doorway. She caught my eye and gestured me over, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"Hey, so, this is going to sound forward, but I was wondering if Ellis and I could stay over tonight. The wine's gone to my head a little, and his place is clear across town, and I just, you know, don't want the night to end yet."
Her cheeks flushed as she said it, vulnerable beneath the certainty of the words. I glanced at Ellis, who was laughing at something Allan had said, his hand resting on the couch cushion between them.
"Of course," I said, and the warmth in my chest surprised me. "There's the spare room. I'll grab you sheets."
She squeezed my arm, and I caught Allan watching me from the couch, a small, knowing smile on his face. The night stretched ahead of us, full and easy, and I let it hold me.
I grabbed the spare linens from the hall closet, a set of pale blue cotton sheets Margaret had brought over one weekend, and carried them to the spare room at the end of the hallway. The room was small but tidy, a patchwork quilt folded at the foot of the bed, a single window open to the night air. I laid the sheets on the mattress and turned to find Dana in the doorway, her expression soft.
"You sure this is okay?" she asked, and I heard the weight beneath the words, the first night she'd actually stayed somewhere with a man who mattered.
"More than okay," I said. "I'm glad you're here."
Ellis appeared behind her, his hand settling on her shoulder, and I stepped past them both, pulling the door closed behind me. Allan was waiting in the hall, leaning against the wall with that quiet smile. He took my hand and pulled me into a kiss that tasted like wine and candle smoke, and I let myself melt into it.
Below us, the house settled into silence, full of people I loved.
I pulled back from Allan's kiss, breath warm and slow in the quiet hall. The house had gone still around us, the last creak of the spare room door settling into silence. He read the question in my eyes and nodded, and we climbed the stairs together, his hand loose in mine.
I was already in my tank top when I heard him unbuttoning his shirt in the bathroom doorway. The mirror caught him in profile, candlelight from the hall softening the lines of his shoulders. He caught me watching and smiled, a quiet thing, and I felt the heat of it sitting low in my chest.
In the blue dark of the bedroom, I slipped out of my jeans and stepped into the thong I'd chosen earlier, thin and pale as spun silk. The fabric settled against my hips like a secret. I crossed to the bed, the tank top skimming just past my ribs, and slid beneath the quilt, the cool sheets raising goosebumps along my arms. He came in a moment later, bare-chested in a pair of sleep pants, and the sight of him stopped me again. He climbed in beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off his skin, and his eyes traced down from my face to the bare skin at my shoulders, the hem of the tank top riding high. He swallowed. I let him look.
He was still looking at me, and I could feel the weight of that look settle somewhere low in my chest, a slow, pleasant ache that I'd grown familiar with over the months. The room was dark except for the sliver of hallway light, and he reached over, his fingers finding mine and linking them together on the quilt between us.
"You did good tonight," he said softly. "The table, the food, the way you made Dana feel at ease. She's been nervous all week about this."
"Ellis didn't seem nervous at all."
"He's been waiting three years for her, remember. I think he's just grateful you helped close the gap."
I smiled and turned onto my side to face him, the quilt rustling around my shoulders. The dim light carved his features into soft shadows, the set of his jaw, the warmth of his eyes. "I like seeing you like this," I said. "Out of the uniform. Just Allan."
"Just Allan doesn't sound like a very exciting person."
"It's my favorite version."
He kissed me then, slow and deep, his hand sliding up to cup the nape of my neck. I melted into him, the way I always did, that familiar heat building in my chest and stomach. His thumb traced along my jawline, tilting my chin, and I let out a soft breath against his mouth. The sound of the house settling around us, the creak of old timber, the whisper of wind against the window, all of it faded into the background of his steady warmth.
We were both breathless when we finally pulled apart, and I could feel his heartbeat under my palm, quick and unsteady as my own. I rested my forehead against his, smiling.
"Tonight was perfect," I murmured. "I didn't want it to end."
"It doesn't have to. Not yet."
He leaned in to kiss me again, and that's when I heard it.
A low, muffled moan from down the hall. It drifted through the wall, soft but unmistakable, followed by a breathy laugh and then another sound, longer this time, rising and fading into the dark.
I froze, and Allan went still beside me. We both listened. Another moan, clearer now, and a low, urgent murmur that I couldn't quite make out, but didn't need to.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
Allan's face was unreadable for a moment, then his lips twitched. "Was that..."
"Dana," I confirmed. "And Ellis. In my spare room."
The heat rushed to my cheeks, but a laugh was already building in my chest, unstoppable and bright. I pressed my hand to my mouth, but it leaked out anyway, snorted and undignified. Allan's own laugh broke free, low and rumbling, and he pulled me against him, his shoulders shaking.
"Should we," he managed between laughs, "should we go check on them?"
"No," I wheezed. "Definitely not. They're adults. They're allowed to, to, you know."
"I know." He was still chuckling, his hand warm on my back. "I just didn't expect to be hearing it through the walls. It's like being back in the dorms."
"Did you have a lot of dorm room encounters?"
"I worked at the station, remember. I heard worse things over the scanner."
We laughed together, quiet and breathless, the way you laugh with someone when you're both thinking the same thing. The sounds from down the hall faded into a murmur, then a rhythm of soft, rhythmic creaking against the floorboards. The kind of noise that needed no translation.
I let out a shaky sigh, pressing my face into the warm curve of his shoulder. "Well. Good for them. I hope they're having a wonderful time."
"They seem to be."
"And you know what?" I tilted my head up to look at him, the laughter still soft on my lips. "I can't wait for our wedding night."
His eyes caught mine in the dim light, and something shifted in them, dark and tender all at once. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm going to make it worth the wait."
He kissed me again, softer this time, almost reverent, and when he pulled back his hand was resting on the quilt between us, careful not to wander. "I know you will."
Down the hall, the creaking paused, and then there was a burst of muffled laughter, bright and unself-conscious, and I felt a strange, warm swell of happiness for Dana. She'd been so nervous, so scared to take that step. And now she was laughing in the spare room of a farmhouse with a man who'd waited three years to hold her.
"Hey," Allan murmured, his thumb tracing a lazy circle on my shoulder. "You listening?"
"Hmm?"
"They sound happy."
"They do."
He pulled me in closer, and I curled against him, my cheek on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear. The sounds from the spare room faded into quiet, the house settling back into silence. Outside, the wind whispered through the pines, and the stars pressed close against the dark glass.
"I love you," I said, the words easy as breathing.
I felt his smile against my hair. "I love you too."
We lay there, the two of us, tangled in the blue dark of the bedroom, and I thought about how strange it was, to be so happy. To have this life, this man, these friends in the next room, laughing and loving each other. To be someone who hummed while she washed dishes and folded napkins and set out candles for a dinner party.
Once, I'd been someone else entirely. A man whose name I no longer needed. But tonight, with Allan's arm around me and the house full of people I cared for, that other life felt like a story someone had told me long ago, half remembered, the edges soft and blurry.
I closed my eyes and let myself drift toward sleep, warm and safe and utterly, completely at home.