Lovely

It started as a passing comment, you hadn’t meant anything by it, not really. Just an observation that crossed your mind and you let slip one night on the couch, legs draped across his lap, New Girl rerun on the TV.

“It’s been forever since we went on a date.”

“Has it?” he’d shot back, faster and sharper than he’d intended, you’re sure. “We just had dinner downtown last week. And we watched the new Peaky Blinders movie the other night.”

“We had dinner downtown because neither of us felt like cooking and you were specifically craving that crispy rice from E&O. And I hardly think watching that movie the other night counts. By that logic, we’re on a date right now,” you shrugged, huffing out a short laugh. “Does this feel like a date to you?”

“I mean, no. I guess not,” his eyes fell to his lap, where his thumb was absentmindedly picking at one of his nail beds. “But we’re spending time together. And I like this, just hanging out at the end of the day. Maybe I’m boring, but there’s really nothing else I’d rather be doing,” he finished, sheepishly glancing at you through his long lashes.

“C’mon, Joey. Don’t make this a thing. I like this too, you know I do,” you assured him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, maybe this is just what happens. I mean, we’ve been together for years, we live together, we know everything there is to know about each other. I think it’s probably normal that things are a little bit mundane after all this time.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s probably normal,” he’d agreed, attention shifting back to the TV screen.

And that was the end of it. At least, you’d thought that was the end of it.

The following week passed in typical fashion. Your days were filled with work, exercise classes, catching up with friends; Joe’s were spent training, taking meetings, attending social engagements for his charity or media shoots for brands he partnered with. Your evenings consisted of quiet dinners at home, perhaps swapping a few anecdotes about your day before retiring to the living room. Most nights you’d watch an episode or two of whatever series you were on at the moment, this week it’s the new season of The Night Agent. Other nights, you’d read your book or scroll on your phone while he played video games. Either way, you were both in bed by 10 at the latest, alarms set, ready to rinse and repeat the next day.

Except, this morning, it quickly became apparent that today would be anything but repetitive. You woke up to his side of the bed empty and the vague memory of a kiss on your forehead and a hushed “love you” an hour or two prior. You took your time rolling out of bed, you usually do on your days off, scrolling through some reels and responding to a couple of text messages before willing yourself downstairs for a caffeine fix. That’s where things got interesting.

You noticed it as soon as you rounded the corner into the kitchen, a yellow post-it note stuck directly to the front of the espresso machine. The penmanship scrawled across it was unmistakably Joe’s, messy and legible at the same time.

mani pedi appt @ 10am

grab a coffee and a little treat on the way

return home for further instruction

Wondering what the hell he’s up to, you grab your phone and snap a quick picture of the note, sending it to Joe accompanied by a few question marks. Your phone buzzes with his response as you make your way back upstairs to get dressed and ready for your appointment.

Joe: obey the post it

His odd message does nothing at all to clear up your confusion, but you decide to play along. Thinking, at the very least, you’re getting a mani-pedi out of it.

You shower quickly and toss on your go-to casual fit before heading to your appointment. The pedicure is relaxing, warm water soothing your aching feet as you sip on a complimentary mimosa, exactly what you need after a long week of work.

You chat with your nail tech throughout the appointment, about everything and nothing at all, but there was one thing of particular interest to you. She mentioned how different Joe sounded on the phone than he does when she’s seen him on TV. On the outside, you laugh it off, nodding in agreement. But, on the inside, you’re oddly emotional about it. He set this up himself. It wasn’t just an idea he had and relied on his personal assistant to execute. He found the number to your usual nail tech, maybe he looked through your contacts or found the punchcard in your wallet. He called and talked to her personally, read out his card number to prepay for the exact services you prefer. And something about that realization makes this a hundred times more meaningful. You can’t remember the last time Joe picked up the phone to talk to anyone but family or friends, and even that was on a discretionary basis. But he made it a point to do this himself. Everything he does is intentional, and this was no exception.

You drive straight home once your nails are complete, as per the post-it note, stomach flipping in anticipation of what could be waiting for you. When you arrive, Joe is nowhere to be found, but you see his gym bag in its place in the entryway. In the kitchen, the shaker bottle from his morning smoothie is freshly washed and sitting on the drying rack. He had come and gone, leaving more mysterious post-it notes in his wake.

The first was on the hall table, where you always sit your purse, since he was sure you’d see it. It was simple, just one word.

Bedroom

The next note is found stuck to a garment bag hanging front and center in your walk-in closet. You’d gone in to investigate because the door was left wide open, something Joe is usually rather meticulous about. This note is short and sweet as well.

Wear this.

Eagerly unzipping the bag, you find a beautiful, seemingly familiar, dress. Upon further investigation, you realize it’s actually a duplicate of your very favorite dress you own, just in a different color. The original has been worn to countless events, on dates and holidays. Each time you put it on, it’s an instant confidence boost, and you’d be lying if you said that wasn’t partially a result of how clingy and complimentary Joe gets when you wear it.

Nearby, there’s a pair of heels laid out, ones that are just high enough to make you feel sexy, and just low enough so you’re not tripping all over yourself. They’re also one of the few pairs in your collection that don’t leave blisters when you walk. In that moment, you can’t help but wonder if Joe picked them out by sheer luck, or if the scope of his attention to detail extends further than you’d realized. After ruminating on that thought for much longer than necessary, you exit the closet, passing your dressing table along the way. On it, he’s laid out some jewelry and a small purse to compliment the new dress perfectly.

There is one final note stuck to the bathroom mirror, this one lengthier than the last two.

Take your time getting ready, meet me at the door at 6. Love you

In lieu of punctuation, there’s a big, messy heart scrawled below the words, filling the rest of the pale yellow paper.

Despite the temptation to ask for more details, you refer to Joe’s earlier text. Obey the post it.

The next few hours are spent buzzing with excitement, and a few nerves. You bounce between styling your hair and applying your makeup, taking a few snack breaks along the way in an effort to take up as much time as possible and make six o’clock come faster. By a quarter til, you’re dressed and seated in the chair nearest to the front door, not so patiently awaiting his arrival. Thankfully, the knock on the door comes sooner than expected, and you make a mental note to give him a hard time later for knocking on the door to his own home. For now, you swing it open to a sight you haven’t seen in years, since you first started dating really. Joe is standing on the front step in a simple outfit of jeans and a black button up, flowers in hand. He rocks back on his heels slightly, a teeth-bearing smile spreading across his face as you come into view.

“Knew you’d be ready early for me.”

“So, you hired a driver?”, you question, cozy in the back seat of the dark sedan he’d led you to. “You never do that unless we’re traveling.”

“Not usually,” he agrees, giving your hand a small squeeze. “But you’re gonna want wine with dinner, and I know you hate drinking alone. This way we can both let loose a little, I won’t have to be the boring one.”

That’s when it clicked. Boring. This was about the conversation the other night on the couch, the one that you’d all but forgotten. Maybe I’m boring, he’d said.

You open your mouth to acknowledge it, but he’s one step ahead of you, recognition clear on his features. He knows exactly what you’re thinking as he waves his free hand between you, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, as if to say not right now. There’s a comfortable silence for the remainder of the ride, your head falling to rest on his shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of everything you wanted to say.

The first destination of the evening is Pepp & Dolores, your favorite Italian spot, where you’re quickly seated in a quiet corner downstairs with exposed brick and dimmed lights. Your meal starts slow, Joe ordering a bottle of wine and some appetizers to share as you wonder aloud which entree you should go for.

After a lengthy debate with yourself, you end up ordering your usual. To your surprise, when it’s his turn to order, Joe requests the pasta of his choice and the one that you’d considered trying but decided against. You raise a curious brow at him as the waiter walks away.

“What?,” he questions, shrugging like ordering an extra twenty five dollar entree just so you could try it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The portions are always too small at these places anyway.” It’s certainly a gesture that he can afford, just not one that you’d expected. It’s kind and thoughtful in a simple way. His way.

For the first time in what feels like forever, your dinner conversation goes deeper than what you should meal prep for lunches that week, or how Joe’s feeling about the energy in the locker room. You chat about goals and aspirations, individual and mutual, and touch base on your five and ten year plans, both pleased to discover you’re still on the same page. The conversation itself is deep and intimate, but the air is light and the wine is crisp. You leave the restaurant feeling like a weight has been lifted, one that you hadn’t even realized was there.

The ride to stop number two of the evening is chatty, you both gush about dinner, Joe only interrupting your lengthy commentary about the lemon pasta to tell you how beautiful you look. He’s as giddy as you’ve ever seen him as you pull up to a building that you recognize as a small, local movie theater.

“God, we haven’t been to a movie theater together in years. You sure you’re willing to risk getting swarmed?”, you question, resting a hand on his chest.

“No risk here. It’s all ours,” he beams, leading you inside.

An employee guides you through the lobby, straight past the concession counter, and into the auditorium. You’re about to insist on returning to the lobby for snacks and drinks when you see it. Set up front and center is your own personal snack stand, and not just a random assortment, it’s clear that it was curated specifically for you. Two huge buckets of popcorn, light butter for him, extra for you. A frozen cherry cola, obviously just poured since it hasn’t even begun to melt. All of the sour candies and chocolate covered raisins, the dark ones, of course.

You’re broken from your trance by the employee excusing himself from the room, telling you both that the movie is set to start in ten minutes and to let him know if you need anything.

It’s not until Joe turns his attention to you that you notice the tears pooling in your eyes, and he must misinterpret the meaning of them because he starts talking quickly.

“I know this is still just dinner and a movie,” he starts, running a nervous hand through his hair, “but that’s kind of the point. All of the dinners and movies that I’ve tried to pass off as dates lately have been pitiful. The other night was a wake up call, whether you meant it to be or not. I stopped going above and beyond for you. Not on purpose, I guess I just got comfortable.”

“Joey, this is perfect,” you assure him, fisting both hands in the front of his shirt to pull him close. “You really didn’t have to—,”

“But I did. I did have to do all this. It’s what you deserve. To feel special. Not bored. Not mundane,” he quips with a playful roll of his eyes. “Besides, it’s more than worth it to see you all dressed up for me, to see you happy. Can’t believe you’re mine.”

His hands reach to cup your face as you rise to your tiptoes, lips meeting his in a sweet kiss. It’s slow, firm but gentle, the kind of kiss that’s worth a million words. I love you. I’ve missed this. I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I promise.

You only pull away when the lights begin to dim, signaling that the movie is about to start. Joe guides you to your seats, where you find a matching sweat set for the both of you to change into.

“Who wants to watch a movie in jeans and a dress?”, he questions when you hold yours up, tilting your head curiously. He’s got a point.

The opening credits to The Devil Wears Prada 2 fill the humongous screen as you finish pulling the soft crewneck over your head. Joe tosses you a bag of sour patch kids before settling in beside you and unfolding a blanket large enough to cover you both.

You wake to a jostling feeling, quickly registering one of Joe’s arms hooked around the back of your knees, the other pulling your upper body into his own as he lifts you and begins to walk. You keep your eyes shut, breathing in the scent of him as he pushes open the door, thrusting you both into the cool night air. There’s a hushed exchange as you approach the car, Joe asking the driver to get the door for him, you think. Then you’re being lowered carefully into the back seat. As Joe slides in behind you, he leans forward, lips just barely grazing your ear.

“I know you’re not asleep,” he whispers, smirk evident in his voice. Caught, you allow yourself to huff out a laugh and readjust your body into a more comfortable position.

You ride home with your head in his lap, one of his hands resting in the dip of your waist, the other softly stroking your hair. You’re not bored, but you are incredibly comfortable.

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