Page 31 of IRL: In Real Life

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Then:

Micah: Like not asking for a date right then and there with your eyes staring back at mine. That was almost impossible to do, btw. I managed.

I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth and typed slower this time, feeling each word before I sent it.

Me: That almost sounds grown.

Micah: Don’t disrespect me.

I laughed again.

Then he sent the next message.

Micah: Dinner Thursday. No mixer. No crowd. No pretending it’s networking.

I stared at his message a beat, not because I didn’t want to go.

Because I did.

Too easily. Too much like a woman whose body had already embarrassed her in a shower less than twenty-four hours ago and was now sitting at her desk trying to act like she needed additional convincing.

I let myself have five full seconds of pride.

Then I answered.

Me: You gon’ ask me out in my Instagram DMs like somebody’s uncle?

His reply came back so fast I knew he had laughed.

Micah: 412-555-1245

Micah: Text me so I can act like I have better sense.

I smiled before I could stop it.

That, I liked.

The little pivot. The acknowledgment. The invitation out of the app and into something that felt a little more like life.

So I did it.

I copied the number, opened my texts, and typed.

Me: There. Now behave accordingly.

The answer came back almost immediately.

Micah: I make no promises, taliajanae.

I looked down at my blouse, at the soft cream silk and the gold chain at my throat, at my own hand resting near the keyboard like it belonged to a woman with composure and standards and options.

Then I texted:

Me: Thursday where?

His answer came back like he’d already thought about it.

Of course he had.

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