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  “I don’t think it’s you,” Sophie says soothingly while Everly shakes her head in agreement.

  “No, I think it’s me.”

  “Once—back when I was single—a guy left in the middle of sex,” Sandra says and we all swivel our attention to her.

  “Stop!” Everly throws her hand up. “I know you’re shy but I cannot believe you’ve kept this story from me when I’ve known you almost a year. A year!”

  Sandra blushes and covers her eyes with her hand. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Too late. I need the details.”

  “So this guy, we went out a few times. I thought it was going well, you know?” She glances around the table. “We met for coffee a couple of times. Met for drinks at this really cute place another time and it turned into dinner. I thought we had something.”

  “And then…?” Everly asks, drawing the words out.

  “We had sex. Halfway through he stopped, pulled out and left.”

  “That is not a true story,” Everly says.

  “It is.” Sandra nods. “I promise you it is.”

  “Was he still hard?”

  “Yup. Pulled out. Pulled up his pants and left. I never heard from him again.”

  The table is silent again while we mull that over. Then Sophie reminds us that she dated a gay guy for two years.

  “Dating sucks,” I conclude.

  “I got kicked out a guy’s apartment once,” Everly offers as her contribution to dating horror stories.

  “You broke into his apartment, Everly. You stole his key and broke in. You’re his dating horror story, not the other way around,” I remind her while Sophie and Sandra laugh.

  “Minor detail, Chloe.” Everly groans. “It was still a painful learning experience. Anyway, enough doom and gloom. I’ve got the perfect guy in mind for you.”

  “Of course you do. No.”

  “He’s hot—and he’s FBI. Everyone knows you have that Fed fetish. I bet he owns handcuffs,” she adds, with a dramatic wink. “And there is no way he’s bad in bed. No way. You know how you can just tell sometimes by looking at a guy? Just by the way he moves? That’s what you need. A guy who knows what he’s doing in bed. And at the very least this guy is packing.”

  “Wait. Are you talking about my brother?” Sophie interjects. Sophie has a half-brother I’ve never met.

  “Obviously, Sophie. How many federal agents do I know?” Everly responds in a ‘duh’ tone of voice.

  “It’s actually a great idea, but please do not talk about my brother’s junk in front of me. It’s disgusting.” Sophie winces and rubs at her baby bump. “I think Boyd’s a bit of a player though. He’s never even introduced me to anyone he’s seeing. But good plan. You guys talk about it. I’m going to the restroom.” She pushes back her chair and stands, then immediately sits again, looking at us in a panic. “I think my water just broke.”

  “I’ve got this,” Everly announces, waving her hands excitedly as she flags down the waitress. “I’m gonna need a pot of boiling water, some towels and the check.”

  “Oh, my God,” Sophie mutters and digs her cell phone out of her purse.

  “Just the check,” I tell the waitress. I turn back to Everly as Sophie calls her husband. “You’re not delivering Sophie’s baby, Everly. Her water broke ten seconds ago and her husband—the gynecologist—is in their condo upstairs. So even if this baby was coming in the next five minutes, which it is not, you’re still not delivering it at a table in Serafina.”

  Everly slumps in her chair and shakes her head. “I’ve been watching YouTube videos on childbirth for months, just in case. What a waste.” She sighs, then perks up. “Can I at least be in the delivery room?”

  “No,” we all respond in unison.

  Sophie’s husband Luke walks in a few minutes later. They live on the top floor of this high-rise so he was only an elevator ride away. He places his hand softly on the back of Sophie’s neck and bends down, murmuring something into her ear. She blinks and nods as he kisses her temple before standing, holding up a long coat for her to slip into, discreetly hiding the fact that her water just broke.

  “I cannot believe this just happened in a restaurant,” Sophie mumbles as Luke wraps the coat around her.

  Sandra, Everly and I sit back in our chairs and glance at each other, a little stunned at the whirlwind of the last few minutes, until finally Everly speaks.

  “Well, that’s official. I am never giving birth. Like ever.”

  Two

  Chloe

  I’ve never been good at dating. In high school I got a boyfriend by default—my best friend was dating his best friend and poof, there you go. I’m not sure Dave even asked me out, we were always just shoved together. I liked Dave and it was nice to have a date for school dances and whatnot. But I don’t know if I learned anything about dating from that.

  College wasn’t much better. I dabbled enough to decide that my time was better spent studying, figuring there’d be time later for dating. I was at Penn on a scholarship and it was essential that I kept my grades up. So now here I am. I’ve got a college degree, an apartment and a job. And no idea how to date. In my defense, the dating pool thus far has been dismal. But I’ve got another date tonight and it needs to go well because I can’t take another rejection or weird situation. A girl can only handle so many strap-on requests.

  I’m sort of hopelessly bad at this. Last week I went out with a guy for drinks. It was the first time we’d met and I was nervous. Dating gives me anxiety. Most social situations give me anxiety, but dating is worse. What on earth would we talk about? But then I reminded myself that everyone likes to be complimented. It’s something I work on with my class—if you notice something nice about someone, tell them. So I’d walked in and yelled, “I like your pants.” Yeah. It’s actually worse than it sounds. The week before that I went out with a guy whose name was Rick Martin and I… I blurted out, “Living La Vida Loca,” and did a weird dance. So clearly there’s room for improvement.

  I survey myself in the mirror and will my racing heart to calm. I can do this. I can totally do this. It’s just a date, Chloe. I remind myself that there’s no need to be nervous. People go on dates every day—for fun. I don’t think it’s fun, but people do. My friends do. It’s just that I tend to be awkward and come across as sarcastic when I don’t mean to be.

  So today needs to go well. I just… I really need it to. I’m going on a date to a Philadelphia Eagles game and I have high hopes. It’s technically my second date with this guy since I met him last weekend for coffee. I like this guy, Cal. He’s a fireman and he’s really cute. A fireman and a school teacher—sounds like a perfect match, doesn’t it? And it was good, the coffee date. I don’t want to jinx it, but I think we could have something.

  I check my reflection again, jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt in a green that matches both my eyes and the team colors of the Eagles. The sleeves are long. They reach the middle of my hand and there’s a hole in each cuff to slip over my thumb. I wonder if there’s a term for that hole. It’s weird, right? A hole sewn into the seam of a long-sleeved shirt to slip your thumb through thus keeping the sleeves pulled down low. Weird. I’ll have to Google it later. But right now, Cal is picking me up. I grab my wristlet and head downstairs to the building lobby to wait for him.

  ***

  “We got an interesting call at the firehouse yesterday,” Cal tells me as we make the drive to the stadium. Luckily the traffic isn’t bad on the Schuylkill and we’re making good time. The stadium is less than six miles from my apartment, but you never know how traffic is going to be on game days.

  “What happened?” I ask, turning my head in his direction. I’m interested in his story and it gives me the chance to watch him talk. He’s cute, very boy-next-door. He’s not very tall, but he’s several inches taller than me. A little on the stocky side, with thick dark hair, a little messy. He’s wearing shorts—like only a guy would in late
September—and a Philadelphia Eagles jersey. His sunglasses block the midday sun but I can see the corner of his eye as he talks.

  “A call came in—motor vehicle vs toddler.”

  “Oh, how awful.”

  He pulls his hand from the steering wheel and says, “Just wait,” with a little shake of his head and a smile. “So we arrive on scene and there’s no car. No one is even outside. Nothing, right? Usually there’s a crowd, but it’s just us. Then the ambulance and the cops pull up right behind us. We all get out and look at each other for a second before one of our guys goes up to the house as one of the cops is checking the street for tire marks. So a teenager answers the door and lets us inside. Turns out the motor vehicle was a matchbox car one kid threw at another and the mom called 911 for a flesh wound.”

  “No!” I say, laughing. “People are nuts.”

  “It’s happened twice since I joined the fire department!” Cal grins and glances over at me in the passenger seat.

  “I guess it’s a blessing when it’s just a toy car.”

  “Yeah, that’s one way to look at it,” he agrees, taking the Packer Avenue exit for the stadium.

  “How long have you been a firefighter?”

  “Six years. But I’ve always known I wanted to be a firefighter, ever since I was a kid. I love it, just like I bet you love teaching.” He grins and I nod.

  “Yeah, I’ve wanted to be a teacher since grade school. I’m so grateful I got a job in my field. I love my class, they’re the greatest kids. I’m so lucky.”

  He flashes a smile my way and we continue talking about his job and mine, places we like to go in Philadelphia, that kind of thing. He mentions that he’s on a fall softball league with the guys from his firehouse and tells me I should come watch him sometime. This date is going so well and Cal is nice. I mean, I might not feel butterflies with him exactly, but he’s nice.

  Cal pulls into the parking lot and we follow the slow trail of cars being directed to open spaces, filling in the rows of parking one after another. We finally come to an open space and pull in. Cal flips the visor down and grabs the game tickets, handing them to me before turning off the car.

  We walk side by side towards the gate, still chatting. Yup, this date is perfect. The sun is shining, birds are chirping, clouds are in the sky, blah blah. I’ve totally got this dating thing.

  We reach the gate and have our tickets scanned, then follow the directions towards our section, dodging people in the crowded venue. Cal grabs my hand and holds tight as we bob and weave, the smell of hot dogs and popcorn permeating the air while vendors walk around selling everything from team caps to beer. The closer we get the more I’m convinced we’re going the wrong way. “Wow, are these really our seats? We’re so close. Are these season tickets?” I stop, staring at the tickets in my hand to verify we’re in the right place. We’re on the fifty-yard line near the Eagles’ bench. I think this is a better view than you get on TV.

  “Yeah, got them from a friend.” He grins as we find our seats and settle in. “I definitely owe him one, don’t I?” he says with a wink.

  We settle in and I check out the coaches and players standing what feels like feet away. They’re running warm-up drills and we’re so close I can hear the helmets crashing. I’m not that into football, but it’s pretty cool to be this close. Around me the hum of the excited crowd escalates as the giant electronic screens count down the minutes until kickoff. I’m leaning all the way forward in my seat, taking it all in so that I have to turn my head back to see Cal. But he’s not looking at the field, instead looking behind us.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Just looking for a hot dog guy. You want a hot dog?” he asks me, still glancing around.

  “Sure, there’s a guy right there.” I point out the passing vendor, a guy dressed in stadium vendor clothing with one of those heated vending boxes strapped across his chest.

  “Nah, let’s have cheesesteaks instead. We’re in Philly, right? I’ll grab them and a couple beers. Be right back.”

  “Okay,” I agree. If he wants cheesesteaks instead of a hot dog, what do I care? I return my focus to the field and pull my sleeves down, sticking my thumbs through the weird hole things in the seam. It really is shaping up to be a perfect day, I think as a breeze blows past and I reach to swipe the hair behind my ears.

  Wait. Should I have gone with him? I’m so rude. I should have gone with. I stand up and scoot my way down to the end of the aisle, apologizing to each person I have to slide in front of. Cal can’t possibly carry all that by himself. And I should have offered to pay after he brought me here. No worries, I’ll catch up with him in line. There’s always a long line for food at the stadium.

  I make my way up the stadium steps towards the main center walkway that leads to the interior side of the stadium where the food vendors are. It takes me a couple minutes to get there, dodging all the fans trying to reach their seats before the game starts. I hope we don’t miss kickoff, I think regretfully as I glance back at one of the giant jumbotrons over the field counting down the minutes till game time. We don’t have much time.

  Once I reach the top of the steps and enter the concourse area I step to the side so I’m not blocking the walkway and glance around, trying to determine where Cal would have gone. I spot a Rita’s Italian Ice and my mouth waters. I didn’t know they had them here. I wish I had time to grab one but I’ve got to find Cal first, I think with one last glance at the Italian ice line. Okay, cheesesteaks… I see a place selling them a few feet away, but I don’t see Cal in that line so I keep looking. I don’t know why he’d have skipped this place, as it appears to be the closest one. Where the heck did he go? Wait, is that him over there? His back is to me. I can’t tell. I take a step in that direction when I feel someone move too close to me in my peripheral vision.

  “Miss? I’m going to need you to come with us.”

  It’s stadium security.

  Three

  Chloe

  “I don’t understand,” I say again as I’m led into some kind of conference room in the stadium. “Where’s Cal? Is something wrong? What’s going on?” Wait. Not a conference room. That sign said security office. I think this is a holding room of some sort. For criminals.

  “Sit.” The stadium officer points to a chair. There’s a table with two chairs on one side and one on the other. There’s even a surveillance window on the wall, like an episode of Law & Order. This has got to be a joke.

  I sit. What else am I supposed to do? Make a run for it? I’m not a run-for-it kind of girl. Besides, I’ve done nothing wrong. I am not a criminal. I’m a second-grade teacher. Maybe something awful happened to Cal? Maybe he tripped and hit his head. Stadium seating involves a lot of stairs. Or maybe he got shanked while in line for a cheesesteak. With a plastic knife. It happens. I think I saw it once on TV. What if they need me to provide medical information? I don’t know any medical information about Cal, I’ve met the guy twice.

  I glance at the two-way mirror on the wall and wonder if someone is looking at me. I stuff my thumbs through the holes in the sleeves of my shirt and rest my folded elbows on the table in front of me and wait. And wait some more. Maybe they forgot about me? I wonder if I can just get up and leave? That would be rude though. Cal might need me. Unless he ditched me here, in which case I am not helping him.

  The door opens and a man walks in. Not the stadium security who brought me here, someone new. He’s in jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt. The shirt is fitted. Fitted quite nicely, I can’t help but notice. Dude’s got some guns under that shirt. Guns? What the heck is wrong with me? I’m spending too much time with seven-year-olds.

  He tosses a notepad onto the table and pushes the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing forearms lined with muscle. My eyes trail down and I note that he has nice hands. Smooth, even fingernails. Men too often overlook their fingernails. Bitten nails are the worst. He’s got strong hands, I can tell. I’m certain i
f I were to shake his hand they would be dry and slightly calloused, but firm and strong.

  I stop slouching on the table and sit up. He’s… impressively good-looking. Picture every sexual fantasy you’ve ever had about a male model kind of good-looking. Only better, because he’s not a twenty-year-old wearing skinny jeans. His hair is much like his nails, perfectly trimmed. Thick and dark. He’s got a hint of a five o’clock shadow and I’m instantly curious what it would feel like under my fingertips.

  “Special Agent Gallagher,” he says, removing what looks like a wallet from his back pocket and flashing it at me as he takes a seat across from me. No, that’s not a wallet, it’s a badge. “Name?”

  Wait. What just happened?

  “You’re a cop?” I spit out, stunned. I’m suddenly getting a sick feeling this has nothing to do with Cal choking on a cheesesteak.

  “No, I’m a federal agent. Your name?” he repeats, pen poised over a notepad.

  “Chloe Scott.”

  “Miss Scott, you have the tickets?” he asks, jotting my name down onto the pad. It’s regular-sized. Not one of those tiny spiral ones that fit into a pocket like you see on TV. How will he get these notes back to his office? I’m not sure why this fascinates me in this moment, but it does.

  I dig the tickets out of my pocket and slide them across the table, watching him as I do so. His eyes never leave me and it’s making me nervous. And then I remind myself I probably should be nervous because I think I’m being questioned.

  “Are you going to handcuff me?” I blurt. Why did I just ask him that? I don’t even see any handcuffs.