I Dreamed the Perfect Blind Date Was Lying To Me Chapter 15

Afterward, Julie moved back to the city with Leo, living in a small apartment above her dance studio.

She found a school for Leo a ten-minute walk from home.

On weekends, Leo came to the studio to play. He learned a few dance moves. His coordination was terrible, but his laughter carried for two blocks.

She stayed in touch with me, not often, but occasionally she sent photos of Leo.

One photo was Leo standing in front of the studio’s mirror, striking a martial arts pose, all heart.

I saved that photo.

As for Derek, Clara told me one thing later.

“I heard he was transferred to a logistics position. Not sure of the details. But word about him hiding a child during dating got around his circle. In the military, it’s not a crime. But it kills your reputation.”

I didn’t feel any satisfaction.

Honestly, I didn’t think about him much anymore.

He was someone who had been in my life for less than a month, someone who almost changed its trajectory.

But “almost,” that one word was the biggest comfort.

Mrs. Walsh came to see my mom again at some point, not to set up another date, but to take her to lunch as an apology.

My mom said it wasn’t necessary and closed the door, but two days later, she opened it again. They sat in the living room and drank tea all afternoon.

My mom’s position was clear. “You didn’t know. I don’t blame you. But stop meddling.”

Then one day, on the subway after work, I was reading a book when someone brushed against my arm.

“Sorry.” It was a guy, late twenties, black-rimmed glasses, carrying a bag of groceries.

A bunch of celery stuck out of the bag and had touched my coat. He quickly moved it away, apologetic.

I said it was fine, and he glanced at my book.

“One Hundred Years of Solitude?”

“Yes.”

“Is it good?”

I thought for a moment.

“The solitude parts are good.”

He smiled, not the carefully calibrated warmth of Derek, but a small smile, the kind you don’t even notice yourself making.

The train pulled into my station, and I stood up and walked toward the door.

Behind me, he said, “What about the hundred years part?”

I turned and looked at him. He stood there holding his grocery bag, the celery leaves bobbing against his knee as the train swayed.

I smiled, didn’t answer, and stepped off the train.

This wasn’t the beginning of a love story.

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the step I took off that train was my own, not pushed, not urged, not scared out by a dream.

After seeing every path clearly, I chose my own.

That night, I made myself some pasta.

The steam rose from the bowl. Fork rested on the bowl’s edge.

Outside the window, the city lights were thick and countless. The city breathed quietly.

I sat at the table and ate the pasta, then washed the bowl and dried my hands.

I walked to the bedroom, took out the piece of paper from under my pillow.

Two sentences were written on it:

[When you have an exit, run.]

[And once you’re out, stand your ground.]

I looked at it for a long time, then picked up a pen and added one final line below: [And after you stand, move forward.]

I folded it, but this time, instead of putting it back under the pillow, I placed it on the refrigerator, held in place by a strawberry-shaped magnet.

So that every morning when I poured myself water, I would see it.

I turned off the light and got into bed.

My phone screen lit up, a text from my mom: [Emily, coming home for dinner next week? Your dad learned two new recipes. He wants to cook for you.]

I replied with one word: [Okay.]

Then I turned off my phone.

Wind blew through the window. The curtain drifted up and fell.

March was almost over. April was coming, and the weather would warm up.

I closed my eyes.

This time, I didn’t dream at all, I just slept deeply.

When I woke up, sunlight was falling exactly on the refrigerator door.

The paper under the strawberry magnet glowed in the light.

I stood there and looked at it for two seconds, then put on my shoes and went to work.

The End.