Chapter 13 - THE FIRST DATE AFTER SEVEN YEARS
Our first date happened eight months later.
I asked him.
That mattered.
Noah was at a sleepover.
Ethan came to my house wearing a jacket that probably cost more than my first car.
I looked at it.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re overdressed.”
“This is casual.”
“For a yacht.”
“I don’t own a yacht anymore.”
“Progress.”
We went to a neighborhood restaurant.
Nothing Blackwood.
No reservation under a billionaire name.
No private room.
The hostess told us forty minutes.
Ethan looked shocked.
“You wait.”
He stared.
“Like civilians?”
“Exactly.”
We sat at the bar.
He loved it.
That annoyed me.
Dinner was easy until it wasn’t.
He asked:
“Why didn’t you date much?”
I almost laughed.
“Single mother.”
“Fair.”
“Also trust issues.”
He winced.
“Fair.”
Then I asked:
“You?”
“Victoria.”
“Before her?”
“A few relationships.”
“After?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
I knew before he answered.
“Don’t say you waited for me.”
“I didn’t.”
Good.
“I was rebuilding my relationship with Noah and learning whether I actually liked myself.”
Better.
“And?”
“Mixed results.”
I smiled.
Then he said:
“I still love you.”
There it was.
I put down my fork.
“Ethan.”
“I’m not asking for anything.”
“Good.”
“I just don’t want another seven years built around unsaid things.”
Fair.
I breathed.
“I love parts of you.”
He smiled slightly.
“That is brutal.”
“It’s true.”
“I’ll take it.”
“And I love who you are with Noah.”
His eyes softened.
“That means more.”
“But I don’t know if I love you enough to rebuild us.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
No pressure.
That was new.
We had dessert.
Then walked.
At my door, he stopped several feet away.
“Can I kiss you?”
I stared.
Once, Ethan Blackwood would have assumed.
Now he asked.
“Yes.”
The kiss was not cinematic.
No rain.
No orchestral music.
Soft.
Familiar enough to hurt.
New enough not to feel like returning.
When we separated, he looked almost terrified.
I laughed.
“What?”
“I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Then go home.”
He smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dating Ethan as adults was strange.
We argued.
About Noah’s screen time.
About work.
About whether Ethan buying a private tutor was excessive.
It was.
He learned.
I learned too.
Sometimes I interpreted generosity as control before checking intent.
Years of surviving alone had made independence feel like morality.
It wasn’t.
Receiving help voluntarily was not weakness.
One evening, my car died.
Ethan offered to send a driver.
I almost snapped no.
Then stopped.
“Tomorrow only.”
He smiled.
“Tomorrow only.”
Growth works both directions.
Then a year passed.
No engagement.
Good.
No rushing.
Then Noah turned eight.
At his birthday, he made one wish before blowing out candles.
He refused to tell us.
Later, I found his notebook.
One sentence:
I wish Mom and Dad lived in the same house.
My chest tightened.
Not because we should obey.
Children’s wishes are not instructions.
But it forced me to ask a question I had avoided.
Did I want that too?
May you like
Then the answer frightened me.
Yes.
