Chapter Five

By Monday morning, the coffee with Tom had settled into the back of my mind. 

I remembered the easy conversation, the way he had listened without interrupting, and how quickly the time had passed. But I didn’t spend the morning replaying every word. There were emails to answer, a project timeline that needed updating, and a meeting that began with someone asking whether we could just move the deadline up a little.

I kept my attention on work. 

The week carried on much as usual. On Tuesday, I stayed late to sort out a problem with a delivery schedule. On Wednesday, Tasha sent me a picture from her lunch break and complained that her boyfriend had once suggested they try a restaurant she’d already told him she didn’t like. I sent back a sympathetic message and a reminder that she was free to choose the restaurant herself. 

Tom didn’t call that day, and I didn’t expect him to. 

On Wednesday evening, I was putting away the last of the groceries when my phone rang. His number appeared on my screen, unfamiliar only for a second before I remembered.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Tom.”

“I know,” I said. “Your name came up.”

“Good. I was hoping I hadn’t called the wrong person.”

“You’d have to explain why you were asking someone else about their week.”

“I could have made something up.”

I leaned against the kitchen counter, smiling at the sound of his voice. “How has your week been?”

“Busy, but manageable. Yours?”

“Busy, but I’m choosing to believe manageable is still possible.”

“That sounds like a project manager’s answer.”

We talked for a few minutes about work, then drifted into other things. He told me he’d tried a new place for lunch and wasn’t convinced it deserved the attention it was getting. I told him about a book I’d started and was enjoying, though I’d only managed a few chapters between work and everything else. 

“Are you free after work on Friday?” he asked.

“I should be. Why?”

“I thought we could do something other than sit across from each other with coffee.”

“That depends. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking. Somewhere relaxed. We can talk without either of us having to check the time.”

I considered it. Dinner sounded nice, but I didn’t feel any need to turn it into a bigger decision than it was. 

“Friday could work,” I said.

“Good. I will find somewhere and call you tomorrow with a suggestion.”

“Don’t make it sound like a business proposal.”

“I will try to keep the bullet points to a minimum.”

We agreed to speak the next evening, then said goodbye. 

After I hung up, I stood in the kitchen for a moment, phone still in my hand. Then I called Tasha.

She answered with a little background noise behind her. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to tell you something.”

“That sounds serious.”

“It isn’t.” I leaned against the counter. Remember I said I ran into someone at the supermarket last weekend?”

“You mentioned seeing someone from school, didn’t you?”

“Tom Harrison. We got talking, and we ended up having coffee on Saturday.”

“Oh, you left that part out.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“And now?”

“He called tonight and asked if I wanted to have dinner with him after work this Friday.”

Tasha let out a pleased little laugh. Well, that sounds like a date.”

“It sounds like dinner.”

“Of course. Dinner. And what are you going to wear?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Then you’d better start. Pick something nice, something you feel good in. And send me a picture when you decide.”

“Are you seriously asking me to model my outfit for you?”

“Yes. I’m your friend. It’s part of the job.”

“I know how to dress myself, Tasha.”

“I know you do. I just want to see what you choose.”

I laughed. “You are making this into a whole thing.”

“I’m not making it anything. I’m encouraging you to enjoy yourself. You can look good and have dinner with a man without meaning you’ve planned the wedding.”

“Thank you for that very reasonable advice.”

“You’re welcome. Now, tell me about him. What was the coffee like?”

I gave her a short version: we’d talked easily, caught up on our lives, and agreed to meet again. I didn’t dress it up as anything more than that. 

When we hung up, I put my phone down and went back to the groceries, amused by how quickly Tasha had turned a simple dinner plan into an event. 

On Thursday, he called while I was on my way home. He suggested an Italian restaurant he’d been to a few times, not too far from town. I checked the name online and agreed it sounded good. 

“7:30p.m?” he asked.

“That works.”

“I will see you there.”

“See you then.”

I got home, changed out of my work clothes, and made myself something simple for dinner. The rest of the evening was mine.

I watched an episode of a series I’d been following, then read for a while before going to bed.

Friday arrived, I finished the last of my work, shut down my computer, and headed home. I changed into a dress I liked, then took a quick picture and sent it to Tasha. 

Her reply came almost immediately: You look lovely. Have fun and don’t spend the whole evening pretending it’s just dinner. 

I smiled at the message, then put my phone away and headed out. 

I arrived at the restaurant and spotted Tom near the entrance. He greeted me with a smile.

“Right on time,” he said.

“I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“You are doing a reasonable job.”

He laughed and held the door open for me. 

Inside the restaurant was busy and warm, with low conversation and the clink of cutlery around us. We were shown to a table near the window. Tom waited until I’d settled into my chair before taking his own. 

We ordered, then fell into conversation as easily as we had at the cafe. We talked about the places we liked to eat, the kind of holidays we preferred, and how neither of us was particularly good at doing nothing when we had a day off. 

“You seem like someone who plans her weekends,” he said. 

“I like having options. That’s different from planning.”

“Of course,”

“And you?”

“I make a plan, then usually change it.”

“Exactly. It leaves room for improvement.”

The conversation wandered from there. We disagreed about whether a good holiday needed a packed itinerary, and he tried to convince me that a long drive was enjoyable even when the destination wasn’t especially interesting. I told him that it sounded like something a person said when they hadn’t chosen the playlist.

“I’m very good at choosing music,” he said.

“That’s a bold claim.”

“I will have to prove it.’

“Maybe you will.”

When dinner was over, we lingered over the last of our drinks. I noticed the time only when the restaurant began to quiet around us. 

“I should get going,” I said. “I’ve got a few things to do tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

Outside, the air had cooled. Tom walked with me towards the car park.

“I had a good time,” he said.

“So did I.”

“Would you be interested in doing it again?”

I looked at him. He wasn’t pushing for an answer or trying to make the question sound more significant than it was. He was simply asking.

“Yes,” I said. “I would.”

His smile widened. “That is a much clearer answer than last time.”

“I’m capable of being clear when I want to be.”

“I will remember that.”

We said goodnight, and I drove home.

I liked that he’d asked directly. I liked that the evening had been enjoyable without either of us trying too hard to make it mean something. There was no need to decide what it might become. I had a good time, and I was happy to see him again. 

 That was where I left it.