Great.
That's what I texted her the second she said yes.
Then I tossed my phone aside and pretended the rest of the episode still mattered.
⸻
We planned for the following Saturday.
The premiere of Shifting Tides—a film adaptation of one of Tom Rawlings' most emotionally wrecking books.
We'd both read it.
We both had opinions about how the ending should have gone.
So seeing it on the big screen? That was an event.
We didn't text much that week. Life got in the way—early morning viewings for me, endless pre-dawn baking shifts for her.
But the silence wasn't heavy.
There was no anxiety, no doubt.
We knew.
⸻
Saturday arrived.
I was parked outside her apartment five minutes early—because I couldn't stand the idea of her waiting.
I sat there, hands on the wheel, tapping out nervous energy to the rhythm of the rain on my windshield.
When her front door opened, I forgot how to breathe for half a second.
She wore a soft beige coat, hair tucked behind one ear, and that same smile she gave me in the café.
The one that didn't know how to be loud, but still took up space.
She opened the car door. "You're early."
"I'm punctual," I said.
She laughed. "Right. Barry the punctual real estate negotiator."
I smiled, shifting the car into drive. "And Grace the opinionated baker. We're a good team."
We pulled onto the road, streetlights glowing softly against the cloudy sky.
"I'm just saying," I added, "if they mess up the book ending in this movie, we riot."
"Oh we riot," she said, without missing a beat.
And we laughed.
The theater was waiting.
And so was something neither of us had words for just yet.