Chapter 166: First Date The phone felt hot against my ear, Isabella’s voice finally cooling from full panic mode down to "nagging but affectionate." Apparently she’d stormed down to the police station like a rejected rom-com heroine, only to find out I was already gone. Her relief when I called was so thick it could’ve clogged arteries. "I’m fine, really. Sterling’s got everything handled," I said for maybe the tenth damn time. "Just focus on your evening. I’ll see you Tuesday." "You promise you’re, okay? Peter, what you did was—" "Necessary. And I’m fine. Promise." After finally convincing her I hadn’t been extradited to Guantanamo, I hung up and stared at my reflection. Evening light filtered through my window, making the shadows carve my face into something older. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that. I’d gone for casual but deliberate—dark jeans Madison picked out last week, black henley that made me look less like "kid who plays Fortnite till 2 AM" and more like "guy who maybe has seen a gym," and sneakers that didn’t look like they’d survived three civil wars. Not overdressed, but not careless either. First real date of my life, and it’s with a twenty-five-year-old graduate student after jail. Because clearly, I hate peace of mind. Downstairs, Mom was buried in patient charts. The living room smelled like Emma’s lavender candle (stress = lavender, always) mixed with Mom’s late-night coffee habit. "Heading out?" she asked, eyes glued to paperwork. "Yeah. Meeting a friend for coffee." She hummed, already assuming I was running back to pick Madison since she wanted to sleep over but had to pick a few things home. She had that smug parent look—like, go on, son, sow your wild hormonal oats. If only she knew the "friend" was her colleague’s daughter, Nurse Luna, who made male teachers forget algebra existed when she walked by. ’That’d be a fun dinner convo: Hey Mom, I’m dating your hot coworker’s hot daughter who is eight years older than me. Can you pass the mashed potatoes and emotional trauma?’ Usually, I’d bike to Bari Street. But showing up to Valentina Luna sweaty and smelling like "Eau de Rusted Chain Grease" didn’t scream first-date material. So I did something stupid. I hailed a taxi. The yellow cab that rolled up looked like it had fought in ’Nam. Rust freckles everywhere, upholstery that probably had tetanus, and the driver who leaned out had the expression of a man whose favorite hobby was ruining lives. "Where to, kid?" Oh no. I knew that voice. That is why I called it stupid. Ray Hutchinson. Local gossip factory, part-time cabbie, full-time pain in the ass. Also knew Mom. Which meant this ride was about to be fifteen minutes of verbal torture. "University district. Starbucks on Bari." Ray’s face lit up like I’d just offered him front-row tickets to a strip show. "Peter Carter! Haven’t seen you since you were yay high. How’s your mother? Still saving lives at Mercy General?" I slid into the backseat, already considering if bailing at the next red light would kill me or just break a leg. "She’s good." "Good? She’s a goddamn angel, that woman. Saved my cousin Marty last year, right in the ER. Heart attack—bam!—your mom had him back on his feet like Jesus rebooting Lazarus." "Yeah," I said. "She mentioned that." (She didn’t. But agreeing was faster than fact-checking.) Ray merged into traffic like Moses parting the Red Sea—with zero hesitation and a death wish. "You know, she brags about you kids all the time. Sharp as whips. Sarah wants to be a lawyer, right? Or was it a doctor?" "Doctor." No she doesn’t. "That’s right! Following in her mom’s footsteps. Beautiful thing, tradition. My boy wanted to drive cabs like me, but I told him—Ray Jr., you gotta aim higher. Can’t all be blessed enough to chauffeur the future of America around." ’It is like being stuck in an NPR podcast I never subscribed to. If I survive this ride, I’m tipping the guy with a brick.’ The taxi itself smelled like cigarettes and disappointment. ’This is my punishment for not taking the bike. The universe is laughing at me. Probably with that smug Ryan Reynolds voice it saves for when my humiliation hits peak cinematic levels.’ "You heading somewhere special?" Ray’s eyes found me in the rearview, little detective glint. "All dressed up. Got yourself a girlfriend?" "Just meeting a friend." "At the university? Must be a smart friend. College girl?" Graduate student who could diagnose your hypertension from three blocks away, but yeah, let’s downgrade her to "college girl." "Something like that." "My daughter’s about your age. Rebecca. Real pretty, cheerleader, honor roll. Maybe you know her?" "Don’t think so." "I should introduce you two! Unless—oh, you said you’re meeting someone. Is it serious?" Define serious. If supernatural sex and medical-journal foreplay count, then yeah, doc, it’s dead serious. "It’s... new." Ray laughed, the kind of laugh that made you want to saw your ears off. "New! I remember new. Met my wife at the diner on Fifth—you know, before it became a Subway. Shame, really. Best pie in the city." His monologue didn’t stop. Construction. The mayor. Why kids today sucked. Why the Knicks would never win a championship. (That one I actually agreed with.) I stared at the meter ticking up like a doomsday clock, offering him grunts so he wouldn’t feel the need to elaborate further. "You still pulling those good grades? Your mom says you’re a computer genius." "They’re fine." "Fine! Modest, just like her. You know what you’re gonna study? I tell Ray Jr., you gotta pick something with security. Computers are the future." ’If you don’t shut up, your future’s about to involve me rolling out of this moving cab like Jason Bourne.’ By the time we screeched up to Starbucks, I basically threw money at him. With a tip. Karma tax. Last thing I needed was "Ray the Snitch" telling Mom I stiffed him. "Keep the change." "Tell your mother Ray says—" Door slam. Blessed silence. Starbucks smelled like coffee and the desperation of three dozen college kids pretending caffeine could replace therapy. Students hunched over laptops, study groups battling math demons, the occasional guy "working on his novel" while scrolling Instagram. Alright. Hunt mode. Old-school. No texts, no Find My Hot Nurse App. Just spotting Luna in the wild, like a predator tracking prey. There’s supposed to be some primal satisfaction in the chase— And then I saw her. Holy. Fuck. Valentina Luna. Corner table. Window light hitting her like it got paid extra. Sweater the exact shade of burgundy that makes you want to confess sins, jeans that should come with a surgeon general’s warning. She leaned over her pharmacology notes, hair slipping down like some shampoo commercial, and three dudes in the room forgot their own names. Twenty-five, nuclear-level hot, and somehow here for me. Which is hilarious, because my résumé is basically: "Beats up authority figures, survives supernatural shit, still lives with Mom." Even worse: Pre-Med Ken Doll at the next table was totally eyeballing her. The type of guy who actually belongs here. The type of guy she should be sipping night lattes with. Two coffees on the table already—like faith incarnate that I’d actually show. Her pharmacology book open, notes scattered like elegant chaos, the kind of chaos only smart people made look sexy. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and three nearby guys nearly sprained their necks. ’She could’ve been a model. Should’ve been a model. Instead, she’s saving lives and somehow agreed to meet with a teenager famous for decking authority figures. America’s sweetheart, right here.’ There was another guy at the next table stealing glances like the first one, clearly rehearsing his opening line. Clean-cut, MCAT study guide open, future doctor face. The type Luna should be with. The type her parents probably prayed she’d marry. But she wasn’t smiling at him. She was waiting for me. ’Unless, of course, I’m just the idiot who mistakes "coincidental seating" for fate. Which would be on-brand.’ Valentina looked up just as I started walking over, and the world hit pause. The "serious student" shield slipped off her face like she’d just removed a pair of safety goggles, and for the first time, it was just her. Warm. Human. Dangerous, in a way that made my chest ache like someone had put it through a wringer. Her smile wasn’t the polite professional smile she gave at the nurse’s office. This one reached her eyes. Her whole face lit up, like someone had cranked the dimmer switch of the universe and aimed it at her specifically. "You actually came," she said, and her voice—bright, genuine, teasing—did stupid things to my chest, like a jackhammer playing Chopin.