First Date - Part 3

A blind date that continues to take unexpected turns.

Feb 07, 2025

"Because deep down, wasn’t that what I wanted? Someone who noticed the little things… and wouldn’t just walk away."

October 27, 2023 — First Date

Chuuch - December 9, 2018

The choir’s harmonies rose and fell like waves, a honeyed swell of voices gliding through the sanctuary and coating the air with something warm, something sacred.

The organ’s deep, resonant chords curled around each note, wrapping the congregation in a sound so rich it felt like stepping into velvet.

Incense and the faint scent of old hymnals clung to the air, mingling with the faint trace of floral perfume and peppermint that always seemed to linger in church air.

The pews creaked faintly as people shifted, swaying in rhythm, some with their eyes shut in deep communion, others with hands stretched skyward, palms open like they were catching the Spirit itself.

I felt the music move through me too, rolling over the edges of my thoughts, blurring everything beyond these four walls. It was one of the few moments I could breathe—really breathe—without the weight of the outside world pressing down.

I stood beside Nia, both of us rocking slightly as the final hymn settled into a lingering hum.

The pastor stepped forward, gripping the microphone like a conductor ready to guide his orchestra, and just like that, the sanctuary fell silent—a stillness so complete it felt almost fragile.

“It’s offering time,” he said, his voice carrying a familiar warmth, the kind that made you feel seen, even in a congregation of hundreds.

Ushers in white gloves and perfectly pressed suits moved in synchronized precision, like an elite squad trained in the art of collecting tithes.

The offering baskets, wine-colored and woven, drifted through the aisles in perfect rhythm, a dance as old as church itself.

I reached into my purse, fingers disappearing into the abyss of my own making. Immediately, I regretted not prepping my cash beforehand.

My bag was a war zone—a graveyard of half-used lip glosses, receipts curled at the edges like ancient scrolls, a rogue bobby pin stabbing my finger like a tiny, passive-aggressive reminder that I should probably clean this thing out.

My knuckles brushed against something crinkly—a Panda Express soy sauce packet, because apparently, my purse was also a food storage unit.

The collection plate was closing in. Nia glanced over, her expression a perfect cocktail of amusement and judgment.

“Girl, just Zelle it,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “Or use your card like normal people.”

I smirked. “I still believe in doing it the way my grandma taught me.”

And I did.

I could still feel the press of her soft, wrinkled fingers slipping a crisp dollar bill into my palm every Sunday, her voice thick with reverence. “This is for God, baby.”

There was something about the tangible act of giving—about letting the money leave your hand and trusting it meant something.

Nia sighed. “You and that ancient habit.”

The offering basket finally reached me. I tucked the folded bills inside, offering a small nod as I let go. But as I pulled back, disaster struck.

A sharp tug at my wrist—then the unmistakable plink of metal against fabric.

My heart stopped.

I stared in horror as my thin gold bracelet tumbled from my wrist and nestled itself among the offerings like it, too, was making a generous donation.

“Oh, shoot,” I hissed, panic surging through me. Instinct took over—I lunged, fingers darting into the basket like I was defusing a bomb.

“What are you doing?” Nia’s whisper came sharp and fast, her eyes darting around as if the church had suddenly been rigged with security cameras.

I snatched the bracelet back, yanking my hands to my lap, cheeks burning like the sanctuary’s chandeliers had turned into spotlights just for me. My breath came in shallow bursts. Had anyone seen?

That’s when I spotted her.

Tameka.

Two rows back, caramel skin glowing under the soft sanctuary lights, box braids cascading down her back with an effortless perfection that made my fingers itch to fix my own edges.

She wore a tailored white blazer over a silk lavender dress, the kind of outfit that whispered, I’m holier and flyer than you. Her lips barely moved as she leaned in to whisper something to the woman beside her. A moment later, both of them giggled.

My stomach clenched.

Tameka had always been a problem. The queen of side-eyes and passive-aggressive prayers. If there was a spiritual gift for gossip, she was walking in divine favor.

By the time the closing prayer began, I was too busy dissecting every micro-expression on her face to focus on anything else. Was she whispering about me? Or was I just being paranoid?

Then, my phone vibrated against my lap, a sudden jolt in the stillness.

I glanced down.

Come to my office after service. - Pastor Daniels.

My heart plummeted straight to my stomach.

Did he know?

Had Tameka already snitched?

I wanted to melt straight into the pew.

What are the odds? - October 27, 2023 | 8:23 p.m.

I blinked hard, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows that made my frizzing curls look even worse. I gripped the cool granite counter, trying to anchor myself.

Behind me, an old Alicia Keys record hung crooked on the wall—part of the decor in this record store turned speakeasy turned lounge. This place didn’t even make sense, but here I was, hiding in its bathroom, trying not to hyperventilate.

I took a shaky breath and whispered to my reflection, “Okay, let’s recap.”

One minute, I was dancing and vibing, living my best life with a guy whose name I barely remembered. The next? She appeared.

Tameka.

Of all people, Tameka Moore.

I shut my eyes for a beat. Lord, why do You test me like this?

Churches are supposed to be sanctuaries. Places of worship, reflection, community. But let’s be real—every church has drama.

My pastor loves to remind us that Noah’s Ark wasn’t just filled with animals but all their mess, too. Churches are like that—blessings mixed with a whole lot of crap.

And if running her mouth was a spiritual gift, Tameka would’ve been the Holy Ghost incarnate.

I sighed, gripping the sink tighter. “Church snitches,” I muttered. “Every church has them.”

But Tameka wasn’t just a snitch. She was the snitch. The Beyoncé of spreading business that wasn’t hers. If there was a rumor in the church, she either started it or remixed it into something so wild it might as well have been co-produced by DJ Khaled.

Like the time my bracelet got stuck in the offering basket. A simple accident, right? But by the time Tameka was done running her mouth, folks thought I was embezzling from Jesus. “How does she live in that apartment? Drive that car? Wear those shoes? As a marketing analyst? Chile, make it make sense.”

And of course, it caught on. For months, people at church were slipping me Monopoly money in envelopes and winking. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” they’d snicker. Someone even Photoshopped my face onto a wanted poster with the caption:

Shall a woman stick up God? (Malachi 3:1)

First off, mind your business.

Secondly, I’m killing it as a voice actor. Not, like, Beyoncé-level money, but decent. And yes, if I wanted to tap my dad for a favor here and there, what of it? That’s between me and my Father—both the heavenly one and the one who raised me.

But no. Tameka had to make me the joke of the year.

And now, here she was. Again. Ready to ruin my life for sport.

My stomach twisted as I pulled out my phone, desperate for a distraction. And that’s when I saw it.

Tameka had already posted on Instagram. A picture of the lounge. The caption?

“Y’all won’t believe who I bumped into tonight.”

My breath caught.

Was she talking about me?

Panic surged through me. I snatched up my phone and started dialing.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then—voicemail.

“This Nia. You know what to do.”

Beep.

I exhaled sharply, pacing the tiny bathroom. The faint scent of lavender air freshener clashed with the sharp tang of bleach. Muffled lounge chatter seeped through the door.

“Nia! Oh my God, you will not believe who’s here. Tameka. Miss Church Snitch Extraordinaire. I think she saw me. And if she saw me—”

The voicemail cut me off.

I cursed under my breath, ready to call again, when the door swung open.

Two girls walked in, mid-conversation.

“I’m just saying, if you’re gonna spend money on a BBL, it better look natural,” the taller one said, gesturing like she was sculpting the air.

She was statuesque with flawless skin, wrapped in a neon-pink bodycon dress so tight it could’ve doubled as vacuum-sealed packaging. Her jet-black hair cascaded down her back like she’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.

Her friend snorted, adjusting the strap of her designer mini-purse. “Girl, half these men don’t care. They’re just happy if it’s fat.”

She was shorter, curvier, with honey-blonde curls piled into a high bun. Her lime-green nails glittered as she waved her hand dismissively, her heels clicking like she owned the floor.

I froze, avoiding eye contact, but not before glancing—accidentally, of course—at one of their results. My eyes snapped back to the mirror, heat rising to my cheeks.

The taller girl caught me.

Her perfectly arched brow lifted.

I turned back to the sink, scrubbing my hands like my life depended on it.

They exchanged a knowing glance before strolling out, their laughter echoing behind them.

I groaned, leaning against the counter.

Focus.

I took a deep breath.

I needed a game plan.

I could wait here until Tameka got bored and left. But knowing her, she wasn’t leaving until she’d had her moment.

Option two: sneak out the back. But did this place even have a back exit?

Or I could just…walk out. Face the music.

I grabbed my purse. Fine. Time to face whatever storm was waiting outside.

I squared my shoulders, reached for the door handle, and stepped out.

Let’s do this

When I step out of the bathroom, the faint scent of orange blossom soap still clings to my hands, cool and fleeting, like the last memory of something pure. But out here, purity doesn’t stand a chance.

The lounge is alive—teeming with scents, sounds, and tension that wraps itself around my chest like an invisible corset. The air is a cocktail of polished leather, whiskey with its smoky bite soaked deep into the woodgrain, and a sly undercurrent of floral perfume—a trace of someone who lingers too long but leaves too soon.

The bassline of the music pulses beneath my feet, so steady and primal it feels like the earth itself is breathing. The rhythm threads through my chest, finds my heart, and molds itself to its beat.

Around me, muted conversations and sporadic laughter rise and fall, cresting like waves in a sea of low light. The chatter swells into a soundscape so layered it feels physical, pressing against my skin, demanding I pay attention but offering nothing in return.

I pause, smoothing the hem of my dress with hands that move mechanically, as though smoothing the fabric might somehow smooth me. Tucking a rebellious curl behind my ear, I let my eyes roam the room, its curated opulence demanding I see it, feel it. Jewel-toned velvet armchairs crouch in intimate clusters around marble-topped tables, their golden flecks catching candlelight like trapped whispers.

The walls, dressed in velvety navy and slashed with streaks of shimmering gold, seem to mock me softly: Be wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove and invisible like the Holy Spirit until you spot the target.

The crowd, a chaotic tapestry of contradictions, tells its own story. Near the fireplace, a cluster of professionals toast to something—success, failure, it doesn’t matter. Their laughter is sharp, clipped, as though the stakes in their lives leave no room for excess.

Across the room, a pair of art students lean into an argument over an abstract painting mounted just slightly off-center. Their thrifted jackets clash with the room’s polished perfection, a rebellion in form but not in spirit.

Everywhere I look, ambition battles pretense, and the chaos swirls just enough to erase time.

And then, I see him.

D leans casually against the far end of the bar, a single hand resting on the counter like he belongs here, like this room bends itself around him. His smile is disarming, dangerous—the kind of grin that can unmake you if you’re not careful.

The dim light grazes the sharp planes of his face, the angles of his jaw catching just enough to make me forget, for one breathless second, how to be.

But my stomach turns to lead when I see her.

Tameka.

She’s there too, standing close enough that their outlines blur, her body angled toward him in that way she does—like a sunflower bending toward its light.

Her black wrap dress is more than just a dress; it’s an anthem, a statement. It hugs her every curve like it’s in love, the crimson slash of her lips curved into a knowing smile.

Not just any smile. Her smile—the one that says, You’ve already lost, but it’s cute that you’re trying.

Her sleek bob gleams under the overhead light, every strand disciplined, like even her hair knows better than to defy her.

My breath catches, sharp and jagged, and for a moment, I’m a statue hidden behind the carved wooden screen near the hallway. The laughter, the music, the clinking glasses—all of it recedes into a dull hum as the room tilts, narrows.

My chest tightens, my pulse hammering an erratic beat that the bassline can’t soothe.

What is he doing talking to her?

Time splinters, dragging itself out as I watch him, watch her. My thoughts run wild, unbidden: Does he know? Does he really know who she is—what she’s capable of? Or is he just another moth circling her unrelenting flame?

I’m not sure how long I stand there, frozen, before his eyes meet mine. His smile falters, just a fraction, but enough to send a ripple through me.

He straightens, says something quick to her, then begins weaving his way through the room toward me. His ease, his confidence—it grates, it comforts, it confuses.

“You good?” he asks, his voice low, warm, a thread of calm in the chaos.

Am I good? Oh, let’s see. There was the girl at the record store who thought I was one of your exes. Then, the cashier you practically wrote a sonnet for over a pack of gum.

And now? Now you’re here, smiling at her like she didn’t spend six Easters perfecting the art of making my life miserable.

I cross my arms, my nails biting crescents into my skin, grounding me. “How do you know her?”

His brow furrows slightly. “Who?”

I tilt my chin toward the bar. “Seriously?”

“Tameka?” His confusion is maddening. “Y’all know each other?”

“We go way back,” I say, my voice flat and brittle.

He nods, like that explains everything. “We went to high school together.”

Of course. Because this city isn’t a sprawling metropolis; it’s a shoebox, and my luck? My luck is the laces that keep it tied too tight.

I glance back at the bar. Tameka, radiant and unbothered, scrolls her phone with the kind of serene confidence that makes my teeth ache. She’s glowing—always glowing. Meanwhile, my stomach churns like I’ve swallowed broken glass.

“You do realize she’s probably already plotting some rumor about me, right?” My words are sharp, cutting the air between us like brittle glass.

D tilts his head, his lips quirking in that infuriatingly calm way of his. “I don’t think she even noticed you. And even if she did…” His shrug is maddening. “I doubt she’d do that.”

A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it, cracking in the space between us. “Yeah, you clearly don’t know her like I do.”

His gaze settles on me, warm and steady, the amber in his eyes catching faintly in the dim light. For a moment, I think he’s going to press, to challenge me, but instead, his voice softens. “If it makes you feel better, we can leave.”

I take a deep breath, the smells of the lounge flooding my senses—citrus, leather, whiskey, and something faintly metallic. I straighten my shoulders. I’ve been here before—outmaneuvered, outshone—but not tonight.

Tonight, I’m taking control. Because if I don’t, by next Sunday, I’ll be the headline in the church bulletin’s whispered gossip: Sanctified hottie loses her cool while the queen claims her crown. And that? That’s not happening.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll handle it,” I say, forcing a smile so tight it feels like my teeth might shatter under the strain.

But what do I even say when I get over there?
“Hey, just passing by on my way to… uh… the other side of the bar?”
Or maybe, “Wow, small world! Didn’t expect to see you here. This isn’t even my scene!”

No. Too try-hard. She’ll smell the desperation like a shark catching the scent of blood. Maybe I’ll fake a phone call, clutch my invisible pearls, and ghost away like I’m starring in my own pity party. Does that count as handling it?

I’m spiraling. Too late to back out now.

The floor beneath my heels feels impossibly loud as I cross the room. Each sharp click ricochets off the polished wood like a taunt.

The low hum of laughter and conversation blurs into the bass-heavy thrum of the music, but my focus narrows like a spotlight on Tameka’s crimson nails tapping at her phone. Her gold hoops sway slightly as she moves, catching the light, and for a brief, traitorous moment, I wonder how she manages to always look so put-together, even in a scene like this.

She doesn’t see me at first. Her head stays bowed, her sleek bob framing her face just so. But when she glances up, her expression shifts—first surprise, then something closer to annoyance—before it settles into that maddeningly practiced politeness.

“Oh, hey! Didn’t realize you were here,” I say, my voice rising a pitch too high. Casual. Totally casual.
Tameka blinks, the moment of hesitation so faint it could pass unnoticed. “Oh… hey.”

“I’m just grabbing something for a friend and heading out,” I blurt, my words tumbling out faster than I can catch them. Smooth.

Her crimson lips pull into a tight smile. “Long time no see.”
I deadpan. “Yeah. Like last Sunday.”

The silence that follows stretches longer than a preacher’s closing prayer, and I’m left grasping for words that don’t come.

“So—” we both start at the same time, our voices tripping over each other in a tangled mess of awkwardness.
I motion for her to go first, though I can feel the sigh clawing at my throat.

She clears her throat, her voice softening in a way that feels more calculated than kind. “Look, I know we haven’t exactly been friends, but… can we keep this between us? You know, we gotta look out for each other… as sisters in Christ.”

Sisters in Christ? Since when has Tameka ever cared about discretion? The same Tameka who once posted an entire paragraph about my “pride issues” on Facebook disguised as a prayer request? I should push back, but I’m too caught off guard to do anything but nod.

Before I can respond, a man slides up beside her, his presence as subtle as a firecracker. He’s tall, with dreads pulled back into a low ponytail, the sides of his head glinting with the clean sheen of a fresh fade. Tattoos creep out from the sleeves of his oversized jacket—script letters and dice that hint at stories I probably don’t want to hear.

The scent of weed and gas station cologne arrives before he does, a bold, unapologetic cocktail that announces itself loudly. He grins, flashing gold grills that catch the light like pirate treasure, and slides an arm around Tameka’s waist like he’s claimed a prize. There’s a swagger in his step, a vibe that says he could fix your car and break your heart in the same afternoon.

“Ready to hit the dance floor, gorgeous?” he drawls, his voice thick with syrupy Southern charm. It’s the kind of voice that could sell you a dream or talk you out of one just as easily.

Tameka doesn’t flinch. Instead, she lets him guide her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Before she moves, she glances at me, her gaze flickering just long enough to register guilt—or maybe I’m imagining it.

I’m rooted to the spot, stuck in a whirlpool of disbelief and judgment.
Tameka? Miss Proverbs 31? Miss “I’m happily single because Jesus is my boyfriend”—being whisked away by a man who probably rolled a blunt in the parking lot?

I don’t even realize I’m smiling until the corner of my mouth quirks up. No judgment, of course. If you’re going to backslide, you might as well make it interesting, right?

Still, there’s an ache in my chest I can’t quite shake. Jealousy? Disappointment? Maybe both. Even bad attention feels better than invisibility sometimes.

Before I can overanalyze it, I turn toward the door, my heels echoing louder than before. D is already waiting outside, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. The cool air slaps me awake as I step out, slicing through the haze of whatever that was.

“Handled,” I say lightly, the word leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.

Now, where were we?

As the night stretched its indigo arms over Downtown Houston, the city thrummed with restless, intoxicating energy. Neon signs buzzed faintly, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto rain-slicked pavement, where puddles shimmered like liquid mosaics of gold, crimson, and cobalt.

The air was alive—a humid cocktail of grilled onions from a nearby food truck, the faint tang of spilled beer, and the musky scent of asphalt still warm from the day’s lingering heat.

The streets sang their own chaotic symphony. Honking horns and revving engines blended with bursts of laughter from bar patios and the rhythmic thud of bass spilling from club doors held open too long.

A street performer on the corner strummed a guitar that had seen better days, his voice raspy and raw, a bluesy melody that curled like smoke through the clamor.

We walked together, our steps falling into a rhythm not quite synchronized but close enough to feel like a deliberate dance. The Uber was supposed to meet us on the next block, but neither of us seemed eager to rush.

D’s hands were buried in his pockets, his long strides easy, like he belonged to the night—like the chaos of the city bent just enough to accommodate him.

Every few steps, he glanced at me—not impatient, but curious, like he was quietly taking stock of things I hadn’t thought to measure yet.

“You always this bad at following directions?” he teased, nodding toward my phone, its screen glowing faintly in my hand.

“I’m trying to keep us from wandering into a crime scene, thank you very much,” I shot back, arching a brow.

“Smart.” His lips curved into a lopsided smirk. “Not that you’d need to worry. I’d protect you.”

The line was corny, but the way he said it wasn’t. It was light, teasing, but threaded with something... effortless. He wasn’t trying to impress me, not really. He was just letting the moment carry itself.

When I caught myself smiling, I glanced away, only to feel him shift closer. His arm brushed mine—not clumsy, but purposeful—and before I realized what was happening, he had nudged me toward the inside of the curb.

I blinked. “What was that?”

“Habit,” he said, his voice so casual I almost missed the weight behind it. “My uncle used to say, ‘Protect the women in your life, big or small.’ Just stuck, I guess.”

It shouldn’t have landed the way it did. But something about it caught me off guard—quiet, unspoken. It reminded me of my dad.

My dad had this thing about walking through the world like it owed him nothing, but he still showed up for everyone like they deserved everything.

The sidewalk wasn’t just a path for him—it was his territory. He greeted strangers like old friends, dapped up guys standing outside corner stores, joked with couples who didn’t even know they needed a laugh. But it wasn’t just charm. It was something deeper.

I could still see the way he’d angle his body, placing himself between me and the street without making it a thing. His arm would stretch out, light but firm, guiding me without grabbing hold. And always—always—his eyes moved, scanning, clocking every detail, every flicker of energy in a way that made me roll my eyes back then.

“You ain’t gotta get ready if you stay ready,” he’d say.

I used to think it was overkill. Dad paranoia. But now, watching D slide me out of harm’s way without even breaking stride, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t expected.

Safe.

And I didn’t know if that made me want to lean in closer or step away before it got complicated.

city photo during night time — Photo by Tim Trad on Unsplash

The cracks in the sidewalk stretched like veins beneath our feet, mapping out Houston’s story—one of relentless summers, torrential rains, and the stubborn rebellion of weeds sprouting through the fractures.

Litter peppered the edges of the pavement: crushed beer cans, glittering shards of broken glass, and the occasional fast-food wrapper that danced with the breeze. Above us, the skyline loomed, its mirrored towers catching the glow of the city and flinging it back, distorted and dazzling.

Then, I saw it.

To my left, a neon sign flickered erratically, its crimson glow pooling on the sidewalk like spilled ink. Derek’s Pizzeria—Since 1978. The sight of it yanked me backward through time.

The sign was the same, hand-painted letters faded but proud. So were the checkered curtains in the windows and the line of people spilling onto the sidewalk, leaning against the brick wall while laughing and chatting between bites of garlic knots.

The smell hit me next, a tidal wave of nostalgia: the yeasty tang of dough crisping in the oven, tomato sauce simmering with herbs, and mozzarella bubbling to perfection.

Even across the street, I swore I heard the faint strains of an old jukebox—probably still spinning the same Motown and early 2000s R&B tracks that had scored my high school Friday nights.

I slowed, staring at the storefront like it was an old friend I hadn’t seen in years.

“You good?” D asked, his pace softening to match mine.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “I used to come here after football games. Me and my girls would pile into one of those sticky red booths, still hyped up on adrenaline. Derek used to give us free garlic knots if we promised to bring our report cards the next time we came.”

“Look at you, running the whole academic rewards program,” he teased, his grin easy and warm. “So, what’s the verdict—best pizza in Houston?”

“Best?” I turned to him, mock-offended. “The best. If you haven’t had a slice of Derek’s, have you even lived?”

“I dunno,” he said, dragging the word out like he was considering a life-or-death question. “I might need proof.”

I nodded toward the long line. “You’re trying to wait thirty minutes for a slice?”

He rubbed his chin dramatically, his expression the picture of exaggerated indecision. “I mean... depends. You trying to re-live your glory days, or nah?”

I smirked, shaking my head as the moment wrapped itself around us. “Shut up.”

We stood there for a moment, the night breathing around us, the laughter of people waiting in line blending with the hum of the city. It was strange—how one place could carry so many versions of me.

The seventeen-year-old, bright-eyed and reckless. The college kid, home on break, trying to hold onto a past that was slipping through her fingers. And now…this me. The one who barely made time for nostalgia, who was always looking ahead, checking boxes, moving forward.

A gentle nudge at my elbow pulled me back.

“So, where did he say to meet?” His voice was light, teasing, like we weren’t two strangers navigating an urban labyrinth with nothing but a few text messages and street signs to guide us.

I glanced down at my phone, its smudged screen glowing faintly. “It says the mural on 9th now.”

He grinned. “Carpe Diem.”

It wasn’t just the meaning—it was what they stirred inside me, something I had long since folded away.
A version of myself that once believed in possibility. A girl who dreamed of a life beyond Houston, beyond expectations.

Once, I had an inside scoop on an audition for Fela! on Broadway. A friend from college—someone who knew someone in casting—called me up. Said they were looking for fresh talent. Said I had the look, the movement, the energy. It was all right there, a chance to step into something bigger than myself. And I let it slip.

I told myself work was too demanding, that I couldn’t take the time off, that I had responsibilities. But the truth? I was terrified. Terrified of showing up and finding out I wasn’t good enough. Terrified of stepping into a room full of real actors—people who lived and breathed this dream—and realizing I was just a girl from Houston who liked to play pretend.

So, I didn’t go. I stayed in my office, staring at spreadsheets, convincing myself I made the right choice. But every now and then, I wonder—what if?

I wanted to be bold, to take chances, to chase beauty wherever it led me. But life had a way of shrinking you, of making you forget the things you once ached for.

I blinked, suddenly aware of the way my fingers curled into my palms.

He was watching me now, still smiling, unaware of the whirlwind he had just stirred up inside me.

I smirked. “Really? Who even says that?”

He chuckled. “Hey, don’t blame me for being a Renaissance man.”

I arched a brow. “Stop it, negro. You can’t even spell Renaissance.”

He laughed, unfazed, the sound rich and easy, like he was used to being called out but never taking it personally. “Fine. I forgot you’re one of those church girls, so I’ll say it like this—God’s providence. Nothing happens accidentally, so I just go with the flow.”

I rolled my eyes, but my smile betrayed me.

The night moved with us as we strolled toward the mural, the city humming its own rhythm beneath our feet.

That’s when I noticed him slowing down, head tilted toward a small shop tucked between a cigar shop and a boutique hotel.

The sign read Noémie’s Pâtisserie, its gold lettering elegant against the deep blue awning. But the lights inside were off, and the sign on the door read Closed.

D didn’t break stride. He just walked right up to the door and knocked.

I frowned, stopping on the sidewalk. “What are you doing?”

He just lifted a finger—wait a sec—before pressing his face to the glass. I watched as a shadow moved inside, then a small woman appeared, shaking her head. D pressed his hands together in mock prayer, flashing that grin I was beginning to realize got him into—and out of—just about anything.

Through the window, I saw her sigh, disappear for a moment, then re-emerge with a small white box.

D turned back toward me, victorious, popping the door open just enough to murmur a Merci before jogging down the steps, box in hand.

I folded my arms. “So, you just charm your way into closed bakeries now?”

He shrugged, peeling open the lid. “You sound like a hater.”

Inside, a neat row of macarons—pale pistachio green, soft rose, golden vanilla—sat like little jewels. He plucked one up and held it out.

I stared at it for a moment before taking it, fingers brushing his.

“I didn’t take you for a dessert person,” I mused, rolling the macaron between my fingers.

“I’m not. But you are.”

I hesitated, something catching in my chest. He wasn’t looking at me like he was waiting for a reaction. He just… knew.

I bit into the macaron, the delicate shell cracking, the creamy center melting on my tongue.

D watched me, then smirked. “Good, huh?”

I chewed, swallowed, and then, despite myself, laughed.

“Shut up.”

He paused for a second, looking a bit unsure about his next words. But then he began to speak, “So, funny story about this place,” he said. “One of my closest friends was getting married, and his fiancée was from Cameroon. I wanted to do something special for them.”

I raised a brow. “Okay… waiting for the part where this turns into a funny story.”

He shot me a look but kept going. “So, I read somewhere that macarons are like, the fanciest French dessert you can get. Thought I’d be real cultured and put together this whole assortment for them.”

I snorted. “You really gotta stay off Pinterest.”

“Are you done?” He side-eyed me before continuing. “So I went on this city-wide hunt, trying every macaron spot in Houston. Keep in mind—I had never even tasted one before. By the end, I was questioning my life choices. Pretty sure I was one bite away from a sugar coma.”

I laughed, picturing it. “And?”

“This place had the best ones, hands down. His wife still brags about it to this day.”

I popped the last bite of my macaron into my mouth. “That was actually really sweet.”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Now, every time I pass by, I remember how ridiculous I must have looked that day—just some dude on a mission, trying to find the perfect macaron like my life depended on it.”

I smiled, imagining him running all over the city for something so small but meaningful. The image was almost too much—this man, a grown, fully capable, fine man, going from bakery to bakery just to find the perfect macaron for his friend’s wedding. Not because he had to. Not because anyone would’ve noticed if he half-tried. But because he wanted to do something that would make someone feel loved.

Something about that hit me in a place I didn’t like to visit too often.

Because deep down, wasn’t that what I wanted? Someone who paid attention. Who went the extra mile just because. A man who saw love not as grand gestures or Instagram moments but as small, thoughtful things—remembering your favorite pastry, noticing when your mood shifts, choosing you in a hundred quiet ways.

And for the briefest second, I wondered—could I ever be on the receiving end of that with D?

The thought was dangerous. Stupid. The kind of thing that led to expectations, which led to disappointment, which led to me swearing off men for six months and pretending I was unbothered.

So, no. Best not to even go there.

I could already see the pattern playing out, the way I’d downplay things, make little jokes to keep it light. Or worse—convince myself it wasn’t real, that men like that only did sweet things for women they were sure about. And nobody was ever sure about me, right? I was too much and not enough at the same time. Too strong-willed, too ambitious, too unwilling to bend myself into something more palatable.

So, before I could even get close, I’d push first. Leave before they had the chance. Pretend I didn’t want it, that I was better off alone, that I wasn’t some little girl still hoping a man might love her the way she secretly dreamed about when no one was watching.

But right now, walking beside D, I could feel the war inside me. That quiet, dangerous hope pressing up against my ribs. The part of me that wanted to believe in good men. In love that was soft and intentional. In the idea that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to keep running.

Instead, I forced a smirk. Better to keep things light. Keep myself safe.

“So what you’re saying is, you’ve basically got a PhD in pastry hunting now?” I teased. “Should I start calling you Dr. Macaron?”

“Ok, that name sounds like a bad Dermatologist..” He nodded sagely. “But, if you ever need a personal Francais Dessert consultant, I’m your guy.”

“Good to know,” I teased. Then, after a beat, I added, “But let’s be real—you just like the memory attached to them.”

His grin faltered, just a little. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I guess I do.”

For a moment, the city around us faded, the neon lights and restless hum dissolving into something quieter. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before a storm.

D shifted, stepping just a fraction closer. Close enough that I caught the scent of his cologne—amber and spice, grounded but with an edge. Something about it felt like an anchor in the midst of the growing unease, even though I couldn't name why unease had settled in.

His hand reached out—fingertips brushing the edge of my sleeve. Not grabbing. Just… lingering.

The warmth of his touch, even through fabric, sent something electric up my spine. It wasn’t the touch itself—it was the weight of everything unspoken that came with it. A question hanging in the air, unanswered.

My breath hitched.

No. Nope. Not happening.
Or is it?

Jesus take the wheel……..

A Note From the Author

Thank you for reading "First Date - Part 3."

I hope you enjoyed getting a glimpse into Girl and D’s story as much as I enjoyed sharing it with you.

Here’s what’s next:

Be on the lookout for a special guide coming later today!
Part 4 of "First Date" will land in your inbox next Thursday—you won’t want to miss what happens next.

Let’s keep the conversation going!