Page 145 of The Illusion
She raises an eyebrow. "I don't like surprises."
"You'll like this one."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She smiles. "Okay. Friday at seven."
"Friday at seven."
I turn to leave, but she catches my hand.
"Ryan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not giving up on me."
"Never," I say. "I will never give up on you."
And I won't.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOUR
JULIE
I changemy outfit four times before Ryan arrives. In the end I go with a beautiful a sundress. Feminine. Pretty. Classic. I assess myself in the mirror. The dress is cream with tiny blue flowers scattered across it. It has thin straps and hits just above my knees. It's simple. Pretty. And most importantly, it makes me feel likeme.
I pair it with sandals and leave my hair down, loose waves falling past my shoulders. Minimal makeup. No performance. When the doorbell rings at exactly seven, my stomach does a flip.
I open the door and Ryan is standing there in jeans and a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is slightly messy, like he ran his fingers through it on the drive over. He's holding a single sunflower. This man is so unfairly good-looking.
"Hi," he says, and his smile is so genuine it makes my chest ache.
"Hi."
He hands me the flower. "I know I already brought you flowers the other day, but I saw this at the market and thought of you."
"A sunflower?"
"Yeah. They're happy. Bright. They turn toward the sun." He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. "I don't know. It just felt right."
I take it from him, my throat tight. "It's perfect. Thank you."
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to a small restaurant in Fremont I've never been to before. It's calledThe Whale Wins, and from the outside it looks unassuming—brick exterior, big windows, string lights hanging over the patio. Inside, it's warm and inviting. Exposed wood beams, communal tables, an open kitchen where you can see the chefs working.
It's loud. People are laughing. There's music playing—something folksy and upbeat. The smell of wood-fired vegetables and fresh bread fills the air. "This okay?" Ryan asks as we're seated at a small table by the window.
"It's perfect," I say, and I mean it. It’s not forcing romance down my throat. It isn’t fake or overly expensive or some kind of play. It’s real. Like he is.
The server comes over—a woman in her twenties with a nose ring and a bright smile. "Hey, guys! First time here?"
"For her, yeah," Ryan says. "I've been a few times."
"Awesome. So everything's meant to be shared, family-style. We've got a great wood-fired cauliflower tonight, and the pork chop is killer. Can I start you off with drinks?"
