"It's clear you're not going down to Dedham House of Pizza with this amount of drama." She snorted and plucked the navy sweater from the heap. "This is cute. Wear this and don't stress."
I folded my arms over my chest. "I'm not interested in cute."
"Be cute and be happy about it," she said, tossing me the sweater. "This shows off your tan."
To Mallori, there was nothing better than a good, lasting tan. She was known to drag a lawn chair out in March, all bundled up in a winter coat, just to catch some rays on her face.
"It's not—" I held up the sweater, wishing she could understand my distress. "It's just not."
I didn't know where Jory would want us to go, but I knew this sweater wasn't right. He was always talking about the books and journals he read, the podcasts he listened to, the documentaries he watched. He'd want to go somewhere intellectual like that—maybe a museum or a symposium. I didn't know what a symposium actually involved but it seemed like something he'd enjoy.
Or a symphony. Did I have anything appropriate for a symphony?
No. Definitely not.
"Okay. I know that look. You're freaking out. We need to pull it back in, Coach." She dropped her hands on my biceps, gave me a firm squeeze. "Step one: where are you going on this date?"
I shook out of her hold and raked my hands through my hair, which was now fully fucked up. "I don't know!"
"Oh." She squinted at me as I paced the short length of the basement. "Then…why don't you call him and find out?"
"Because I'm trying to be easy," I replied, shrugging as if nothing could possibly bother me. "I'm trying to go with the flow. I'm trying to be low maintenance."
"Did he give you the impression you needed to be low maintenance in order to spend time with him?"
I picked up a pair of jeans and smoothed out the legs. "No."
Mallori blew out a breath as she rubbed her temples. "This little situation we're having right now should inform you that approach isn't working. You're sacrificing your boundaries to meet the needs you've assigned to someone else. You're letting yourself slip into second position again because that pattern is familiar and it feels safe but you know it's not. You know you deserve to be as high maintenance as your emotions require, and if he can't hack that, he's not right for you."
Did I mention my sister was a marriage and family therapist? Because yeah.
"Okay, Mal, I get it." I reached for another pair of jeans. "But I have to meet him in an hour, and I don't have anything to wear to a symphony so we need to hurry this counseling session along."
"Max, honey, it's nine a.m. on a Saturday morning. You're probably not going to the symphony, and even if you were, this guy should have the decency and common sense to tell you that in advance."
This was probably true. Jory was all about common sense.
"Call him," she said. "Ask for the dress code if you don't want to pump him for all the details. If he's a good guy, he'll be able to give you that much. If he can't, perhaps this romantic opportunity is one you should reevaluate." She moved toward the staircase. "I have to finish making snacks for all of our soccer games. I know you can handle this."
Mallori marched up the stairs and closed the door with a definitive thud that made clear her expectation I was dating someone less horrible and emotionally ruinous than Teddy.
Since Jory was none of those things and I was out of time to ponder my clothing options, I snatched up my phone and tapped Jory's number. All I had to do was ask about the dress code. One quick question. This was fine. No problem. I could pull this off without being a tool.
"Hey," he answered, a little breathless as if he'd dashed to grab his phone. "What's up?"
Or—oh, Jesus, no—he was breathless because he hated talking on the phone and this was causing him distress. Oh my god. I was torturing this poor man. I should've just gone with the suit I wore to my Uncle Grover's funeral ten years ago and suffered the consequences. No amount of inappropriate attire was worth stressing Jory.
I dragged a hand down my face. I had to say something. I couldn't just hang up. We were doing this, we were having a phone conversation and I was going to dissolve into a hard ball of my bad choices any minute now. "Would it be okay—I mean, do you mind—where are we going?"
So much for one quick question.
"Oh," Jory replied, laughing. "Yeah, of course. We're—"
"Here's the thing," I interrupted because I couldn't stop the words from tumbling out. This was already bad. Why not make it worse? "I don't have anything to wear to the symphony, and I don't really know what a symposium is or whether it's at all related to a symphony—though I figure it has to be, right? No? Anyway, I'm not sure what to wear to a symphony. Or a symposium. And I don't want to screw this up again—or any more than I am right now with all this word salad. So, if I haven't convinced you I'm a raving lunatic yet, I'd love to know where we're going."
Jory laughed again. "Wow. Okay."
I thumped my forehead against the wall. "Yep. I've screwed it up again."
"You haven't screwed up anything," Jory replied. "I should've given you more info yesterday. It's my fault."
"Not your fault," I insisted. "Really, it's just me overthinking. You probably would've said something about needing a tux since you're always hot on the details like that."
"You definitely won't need a tux for the day I have planned," he said. "I thought it would be fun to do the pumpkin patch thing."
"A pumpkin patch?"
"Yeah. I found a big farm in the area with all the usual farm stuff on Instagram. I know it's the most basic thing ever but it's a mandatory autumn activity, right? I also want an excuse to eat some fresh apple cider donuts. Does that work for you?" When I didn't respond right away, Jory added, "We can do something else. It doesn't have to be a pumpkin patch."
I glanced at the navy sweater, the one that practically screamed autumn in New England, and I let out an enormous sigh of relief. "That sounds awesome."
"So…do you still want me to pick you up in an hour?"
"Hell yeah," I replied. "I'll be out on the curb doing jumping jacks."
"I look forward to seeing that," Jory said with a laugh. "Hey, Max?"
"Yeah?"
"Have you been tearing your closet apart and pacing in your underwear?"
I jerked a shoulder up. "Basically."
After a pause, he said, "Me too."
"But—why? You know where we're going."
He paused again. "Because I don't want to screw this up either."
The back of my neck heated, then my cheeks. And I was smiling, not that Jory could see any of it but maybe he was feeling this way too. Maybe we were both blushing and tender and scared as hell to get this wrong because we knew it could be very, very right.
"And there's something else I should say," he added. "I want to apologize."