Free While You Were Gone: A Thought I Knew You Novella by Kate Moretti Page A

Pete. It used to work on my dad. To be honest, it generally works on me. I don’t have the energy for her. I dial her number. No answer. I leave a message, surprising myself. If we’re being honest, I do it so I can tell Greg later.
    I text him: I called her. What do I win?
    I wait, the phone in hand, for five full minutes.
    My undying admiration. Good enough.

    Me: coffee or tea?
    Him: Coffee. Tea? What is this, Britain?
    Me: Hey. I’m a tea kind of girl.
    Him: You’re something.
    Me: Books or movies?
    Him: Movies based on books.
    Me: That’s totally the wrong answer.
    Him: Board games or video games?
    Me: Board games. I’m too old for video games.
    Him: How old are you anyway?
    Me: You never ask a lady her age. How old are you?
    Him: God, you’re sexist.
    Me: I thought you said sexy.
    No reply .
    Me: When do you come back?
    Him: Soon. I hope.
    Me: Not soon enough.

    “What are you doing this weekend?” If it was the eighties, I’d have the phone cord twirled around my ankle, and I’d snap gum in his ear.
    He sighs. “A family reunion. I don’t want to go. Should I skip it? Drive to Canada?”
    “Yes. This is what I’m suggesting! Tell me about your family.”
    “Oh.” He hesitates. “Not much to tell. I’m not close with any of them. Just a bunch of elderly aunts.” He laughs. “But I’m coming back next week. Is that soon enough?”
    “Barely. But yes.”
    I sigh.
    “Dinner?” I ask hopefully.
    He’s silent for a beat. “Yes. Definitely dinner.”
    I officially have a date. When we hang up, I wish I could tell someone.
    I change my outfit seven hundred times like I’m sixteen. I settle on dark wide-leg jeans, a deep-V shirt, and one silly black kitten heel. The other foot is still encased in a clunky walking cast. Silver jewelry, earrings that swing. Light makeup. It’s one of those nights where everything just works. All the flyaways that I typically have to wrangle into place with a dryer sheet just behave.
    God, I’m so nervous. I haven’t been on a first date in at least four years. I remember that first night with Scott, the furtive slip of his phone number against all convention while our respective dates waited in the food tent. I remember the way my heart raced so much I thought it would fly out of my chest. That was nothing compared to this.
    I can’t eat. My good foot taps and patters against the tile kitchen floor, waiting. He texts me, Be there in five! I like how there are no games with Greg. He says he’ll call, and he calls. He says he’ll be there in five, and he’ll be here. He’s such an adult. Scott used to make plans and show up two hours late, dinner reservations be damned. He blamed it on his adult ADD, his inability to focus. He was distracted by the muse or scatting in his living room.
    When the doorbell rings, I buzz him upstairs and wait. He knocks softly a shave-and-a-haircut tap, and I laugh to myself. By the time I open the door, I’m almost breathless from anticipation, and my stomach rolls with nerves.
    Greg looks the way I remember. When he smiles, he’s all dimples and sparkling eyes, and I’m irritated with how crazy about him I am. It’s so unlike me. I like men well enough but never like this.
    He takes a deep breath. “You look… great.”
    “I would twirl but…” I point to my foot. He laughs. It’s deeply resonant and sounds better in person than it does on the phone. Or text.
    We stand there, he in the hallway, me in the doorway, smiling at each other, and I realize that without a doubt he’s as crazy about me as I am about him. There’s a certain freedom in that—to be exactly myself. I can like jazz or not. I can like regular fizzy pop or raspberry. I can chew gum for two minutes and throw it away if I want.
    I realize he has one hand behind his back.
    I raise my eyebrows. “Whatcha got there?”
    He brings his arm around, and in his hand is a small, blue, familiar container.
    “Chocolate Hobnobs!” I clap. I’d jump up and down