Saturday morning came with the kind of crisp autumn weather that makes you want to spend all day outside. Emily woke up in an unusually good mood, chattering about Mason playing while I changed her diaper and dressed her in the little overalls she loved because they had pockets.
The park was only a ten-minute walk from our apartment, but I’d been there enough times to know which playground equipment was age-appropriate and which would result in scraped knees or worse. Emily made a beeline for the swings the moment she spotted them, as predictable as sunrise.
Caleb and Mason arrived five minutes after we did, Mason immediately running toward Emily with the focused determination toddlers bring to important social missions. Caleb carried a thermos and wore a jacket that brought out the green in his eyes.
Not that I was noticing such things.
“Coffee?” he offered, holding up the thermos. “I figured public park benches and caffeine go hand in hand.”
“You’re officially my favorite person,” I said, accepting the cup he poured.
The coffee was perfect, strong enough to actually help, not too hot to drink immediately. We settled onto a bench with clear sight lines to both kids, who had found a patch of fallen leaves and were conducting some kind of experiment involving throwing them as high as possible and giggling when they fluttered down.
“This is their idea of science,” I observed.
“Important research,” Caleb agreed seriously. “Gravity testing requires rigorous methodology.”
I snorted, coffee nearly coming out my nose. “You did not just make a physics joke while watching toddlers play in leaves.”
“I absolutely did, and I’m not sorry.”
Something about his grin made my stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. When was the last time someone had made me laugh like that? When was the last time I’d felt attractive, interesting, worth flirting with?
“Tell me something about yourself that has nothing to do with kids,” I said impulsively.
He considered this seriously, as if it were a complex philosophical question. “I build furniture in my garage. Not professionally, just for fun, I guess. Chairs mostly, sometimes tables.”
“That’s unexpectedly impressive.”
“What’s unexpected about it?”
I gestured vaguely at his general appearance. “You look like someone who builds furniture. All competent and practical. I meant it’s impressive that you do it for fun, not just because you have to fix something.”
“What do you do for fun that has nothing to do with kids?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “I watch Netflix after Emily goes to bed. Read marketing blogs. God, that’s depressing. I used to have hobbies.”
“What kind of hobbies?”
“Photography. I was actually pretty good at it in college. Had all this equipment. Spent weekends driving around looking for interesting shots. Now I only take pictures of Emily, and they’re all blurry because she won’t sit still.”
Caleb studied my face with the kind of attention that made me self-conscious in the best way. “What stopped you?”
“Life, I guess. Hard to pursue artistic vision when you’re covered in baby spit and running on three hours of sleep.”
“Emily’s not a baby anymore.”
He was right. And I realized I’d been using her infancy as an excuse long after she’d outgrown the stage that made photography impossible. Fear, maybe. Fear that I wasn’t as good as I remembered, or that the person who’d loved taking pictures had disappeared along with everything else in my old life.
“Maybe I should try again,” I said, the words feeling foreign in my mouth.
“You should. I’d like to see your work sometime.”
Emily chose that moment to present us with a leaf collection, each specimen carefully selected for maximum crunchiness. She climbed onto my lap and began showing me the unique qualities of each leaf with the seriousness of a museum curator.
“This one, yellow,” she announced, holding up a maple leaf that was more brown than yellow, but close enough for a two-year-old.
“Beautiful,” I agreed. “What about this one?”
We spent twenty minutes cataloging leaves while Mason showed Caleb his rock collection, which apparently had very specific organizational principles that only made sense to a toddler mind.
“We should probably head home soon,” I said eventually, noting the signs of impending meltdown in Emily’s increasing fussiness. “Nap time approaches.”
“This was really nice,” Caleb said, helping gather scattered toys. “We should do it again.”
“Would you like to come for dinner sometime this week?” The invitation slipped out before I could second-guess myself. “Nothing fancy. Probably pasta and whatever vegetables Emily will actually eat, but I’d love that.”
His immediate acceptance caught me off guard. I’d been prepared for polite deflection or the need to convince him that dinner with a toddler could actually be enjoyable.
“Wednesday,” I suggested. “Around six.”
“Perfect. Can I bring anything?”
“Just yourself. And Mason, obviously, if Jessica doesn’t mind.”
As we walked back to the parking area, Emily holding my hand and chattering about her leaf collection, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in years. Anticipation. Not the practical anticipation of checking items off a to-do list or getting through another day, but the warm, fluttery anticipation of looking forward to something purely because it would be enjoyable.
Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough.
When it did arrive, I spent more time preparing than I’d spent on anything in months. Not just cooking, though I did make an actual meal instead of my usual rotation of kid-friendly convenience foods, but cleaning, setting the table with plates that matched, even putting flowers in a vase.
Emily helped by organizing her toy box, which mostly involved taking everything out and putting it back in a different order. But she was excited about Mason coming to dinner and kept asking when he would arrive.
Caleb knocked on our door at exactly six, carrying a bottle of wine and wearing a shirt I suspected was reserved for special occasions. Mason had a small backpack that I assumed contained emergency entertainment supplies, the kind of preparation that marked an experienced caregiver.
“Something smells incredible,” Caleb said, following me into the kitchen.
“Garlic bread and optimism,” I said. “The pasta’s still cooking, but Emily insisted on taste-testing the sauce approximately fourteen times, so I’m confident it meets toddler approval standards.”
Dinner was surprisingly smooth. Emily and Mason entertained each other with a complex game involving passing crayons back and forth while making increasingly elaborate sound effects. The adults managed to have actual conversation between referee duties.
“This is really good,” Caleb said, twirling pasta around his fork with the practiced motion of someone who’d eaten plenty of meals while managing a small child. “When you said nothing fancy, I was expecting hot dogs.”
“I save hot dogs for special occasions,” I said dryly.
“Like when?”
“When I’ve completely given up on life.”
He laughed, and I felt that flutter again. When was the last time I’d made someone laugh on purpose? When was the last time I’d wanted to?
After dinner, we moved to the living room while the kids played with Emily’s toys. Caleb helped clean up without being asked, navigating my kitchen like he’d been there before. Easy, comfortable, natural.
“Thank you for this,” he said as we finished loading the dishwasher. “For inviting us. Mason doesn’t get a lot of normal family experiences.”
“What do you mean?”
His expression grew more serious. “Jessica’s doing her best, but working two jobs and school doesn’t leave much time for dinner parties. Mason spends most evenings with babysitters or at daycare. This kind of thing, sitting around a table, adults talking while kids play nearby. It’s good for him.”
I looked at Emily and Mason, who had discovered the magic of building block towers specifically for the purpose of knocking them down.
“It’s good for Emily, too. And for me, if I’m being honest.”
“Lonely?” he asked gently.
“Sometimes. More than sometimes, actually. You don’t realize how much adult conversation you need until you’re not getting any.”
We stood there in comfortable silence, watching our kids destroy and rebuild their architectural creations with the dedication of tiny demolition experts.
“Natalie,” Caleb said, and something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. “Would you like to go out sometime, just the two of us?”
My heart stopped, then started again at double speed. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“I’m definitely asking you on a date.”