Chapter 46

Ardal

I stared at the mirror as I fussed with my hair, smoothed my black cocktail dress and checked my teeth for stray lipstick, trying to ignore the knot of nerves in my stomach.

This is my first date since Kadeem. I want everything to be perfect.

A knock rattles the door, and five pairs of feet pound down the hall. The door bursts open—my quintuplets tumble into the room, a tangle of chatter and questions.

"Is that what you're wearing,” asks Silas, eyeing my dress.

I smile. "You don’t like it?"

"You never wear dresses, Mommy," says Lottie.

“Tonight’s the kind of thing you have to get a little dressed up for,” I say. Lottie’s not wrong. I pulled this dress out from the very back of my closet.

Erbao tugs at the fabric. “We’ve all talked about it. We want you to go on a date with Kadeem, instead.”

I swallow hard and rustle his hair. “Not tonight,” I say.

All five children erupted into protests.

"He saved my life, remember,” Milo shouts.

"Dr. Rayburn might try to give us a shot," Ezra says, fear in his eyes.

“Or put that stick on my tongue,” Lottie says. Her face looks indignant.

“And we want Kadeem,” Erbao persists.

I clap my hand to my head, laughter bubbling in my chest. "Enough! I don’t need my children to arrange a relationship for me. This isn’t The Parent Trap. So, no Kadeem.”

The quintuplets exchange disappointed looks, scuffing their feet.

"Dr. Rayburn is a kind man," said Ardal. "And there’s no need to worry about shots or tongue depressors, understand?"

The children nod, though they all still look unconvinced. I give them each a kiss on the forehead and shoo them off to play.

Alone again, I take a deep breath. I can do this. It’s time to look toward the future, and leave the past behind. I try to bury the nagging fear about Erbao for now.

One step at a time, Ardal. All the details for the transplant will be worked out.

I tell the quints goodbye, leaving them with Hannah for the night.

Squaring my shoulders, I stride out the front door into the golden light of evening. Jack's car idles by the curb, and he steps out to greet me with a charming smile. My breath catches at the sight of him. He’s even more handsome than I remembered, dressed stylishly in a sports coat and button down shirt.

"You look beautiful," he says, brushing a kiss over my knuckles.

I blush, warmth flooding my cheeks. "Thanks Dr. Ray - I mean, Jack.” I feel my entire face turning red.

Jack chuckles and opens up the passenger side door. I slide into the front seat, a thrill running through me. Maybe this is the start of something good.

On the drive to the gallery, Jack launches into a discussion about the featured artist, spewing terms like “chiaroscuro” and “negative space” that makes him sound cultured and worldly. I listen with rapt attention, enchanted by his knowledge and passion.

The gallery is filled with vivid abstract paintings in a riot of colors. Jack guides me from one piece to the next, and it becomes clear that his art expertise was mostly for show.

He hesitates in front of each piece, reading the descriptions to me as if they were his own insights. I bite back a smile, finding his desire to impress me oddly endearing.

My anxiety fades. I begin to relax into Jack’s company. I play along with his show as the art “aficionado,” with lots of wide-eyed “oh’s” and nodding. He seems to pick up my ruse, and turns to me with a sheepish grin.

"To be honest, I don't know the first thing about art. I just wanted to seem sophisticated." His cheeks color adorably. "Pretty lame, I know."

I laugh. "I appreciate you trying to impress me. But you didn't need to lie." I hold his gaze steadily. "I already like you for who you are."

His eyes light up and he pulls me in for a soft, sweet kiss. When he draws back, his smile was genuine and full of warmth. "Thank you for understanding. I promise no more pretending."

We finish the rest of the art gallery circuit, my head reeling and my heart fluttering.

When we emerge from the gallery into the cool evening air, the city streets are bustling with activity. Couples strolling by arm in arm, friends laughing over drinks at sidewalk cafes, the sound of music spilling out of nearby bars.

I breathe deeply, soaking in the sights and sounds. My nerves have faded completely.

"Everything okay?" he asks, taking my hand.

“Honestly, I don’t want the night to end yet,” I say.

“Good,” Jack says. “I was hoping we could get dinner together.”

“I don’t know what you had in mind,” I say, “But could I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

I lead him a couple blocks away, to a less ritzy part of downtown. The shops and restaurants change as we walk, from glamorous and upscale, to kitschy and funky.

We stop in front of the kind of well-worn, hole-in-the wall diner, most would probably overlook.

“This,” I say, gesturing my hand like Vanna White, “Is a city landmark.”

He raises his eyebrows. “9th Street Basin,” he says, reading the sign. “I’ve never been.”

I pull him inside. “You’ve been missing out.”

We settle into a corner booth, looking over plastic menus of the ultimate comfort foods, like pancakes, cheeseburgers, and fried chicken- all the staples - and of course, slices of pie - just about any kind you could want.

“They top off the lemon, chocolate, and coconut with meringue ‘this’ high,” I say, holding out my hands to demonstrate.

Over dinner, I find myself opening up more and more, telling him how hard it is sometimes to be a single mom, and my worries about Erbao.

“You’re doing an amazing job as a parent,” Jack says. “Your kids are all smart and well-behaved. I don’t know how you manage quintuplets on your own, but you deserve ‘Mom of the Year.’ They’re incredible and so are you.”

I cast my eyes down at my plate. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” he says.

“I’m just so worried about Erbao.”

Jack reaches over for my hand. “It’s normal to be worried,” he says. “But I want you to know, I’ll work hard to take care of him, and get you both through this tough time. Hopefully, you and your family will be able to put all of this behind you soon.”

“I hope so,” I say, softly. I find that I’m not hungry anymore, and just pick at my food after.

I get quiet and Jack changes the subject to something lighter - books and movies. He talks me into ordering pie with him. I decide on lemon meringue.

Jack talks about his medical practice and the traveling he’s done overseas.

“What’s your favorite place,” I ask.

“Without a doubt, Fiji,” he says. He puts his fork down, having finished most of his pecan pie. “Least favorite was New Orleans.” He takes a drink of his coffee. “Loved the music, the food, and the atmosphere, but I’ve never run across so many vampires in my life.”

I giggle. “You have Anne Rice to thank for that.”

The evening has flown by. Back outside the diner, I loop my arm in his, and we make our way back toward the car.

I don’t know the last time I’ve had such a perfect night. It’s everything I wanted it to be.