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Drake

I ’m getting ready for my date with Lyla tonight, doing the most embarrassing thing I can think of: getting advice from my sister.

And . . . my mom.

If any of my teammates found out that I’m dissecting my love life with my mother, I’d be benched. Immediately.

“Okay, so, just tell me if this is a bad idea,” I say, putting my phone on speaker and dropping it on the counter as I pull on a clean undershirt. “I really like her. Like . . . she’s different. And I don’t wanna mess it up by—”

“Oh boy, he’s gettin’ serious,” Savannah cuts in. “Mama, he used the L-word.”

“I said like , not love ,” I mutter as I mess with my hair.

“You sure?” Savannah teases. “You sound like you’re about to write her a country song.”

“I would if I could rhyme anything with ‘administrative assistant.’”

Mama’s voice cuts through, as sharp as a slap with a wooden spoon. “Drake Alan Blythe, you listen to me. You will open her car door, you will not let her pay for anything, and for heaven’s sake, you better not be showing up in those raggedy sneakers you wore to Easter service last year.”

“I burned those,” I say. “After Easter.”

“Bless your heart, those were terrible.”

Savannah laughs. “Mama’s not wrong. Presentation matters. But Drake, seriously—just be honest. If you like her, tell her.”

“I can’t just blurt out, ‘Hey, I like you, let’s make out,’” I say. “That’s how you get slapped. Or canceled.”

Mama gasps. “Make out? MAKE OUT?! Oh heavens—”

There’s a scuffle in the background as Savannah tries to mute my mom as she feigns mortification. As if we haven’t all seen my parents too cozy—they don’t have five kids for no reason.

Eventually, Savannah comes back on the phone, her voice calm. “Keep going, Drake. We’re all adults here.”

“I just—look, I don’t know how to do this the right way. I’ve only ever done . . . whatever the opposite of right is.”

“The opposite of right is someone sliding into your D.M.s at 2 a.m.,” Savannah says flatly. “Which is your entire dating history.”

“Exactly,” I say. I can practically hear my mom fanning herself in the background. “So now I’m trying to be different. And I don’t know if I should kiss her goodnight or wait and like—I don’t even know what else you can do.”

“You could hold her hand and say something romantic,” Mama offers. “Like, ‘This feels like a scene from a Nicholas Sparks novel.’”

Savannah snorts. “Yeah, before someone drops dead of cancer.”

“Okay, you know what? Y’all are no help.”

“We’re a lotta help,” Savannah says. “You’re just panicking.”

“I’m not panicking,” I lie.

“If you think she’s ready to be kissed, just kiss her,” Savannah says, like that’s the easiest thing in the world. Women are complicated—and Lyla more than most.

Mama lowers her voice like she’s about to share classified intel. “Son, if this girl’s special, don’t rush the kiss. Let her feel safe with you. Be respectful. Use your manners. Smell nice. Compliment her mama.”

“I’m not meeting her mom tonight, Mama.”

“You might ! You never know!”

“Okay, so what I’m hearing is . . . open her door, don’t kiss her, but maybe kiss her if it feels right, but only if I smell nice and pray first.”

“Have mercy,” Mama sighs. “Just be a gentleman, baby. That’s all.”

“And don’t say anything dumb,” Savannah adds. “Which, for you, is a challenge.”

“Y’all are exhausting,” I mutter, but I’m grinning as we say our goodbyes and hang up.

I’m more confused than ever.

But one thing’s for sure: I really, really want to kiss Lyla Smith.

I’m getting into my truck when my phone rings again. For a moment, I think it’s my mom calling me for one more pep talk. But when I glance down at the screen, I see Charles’ name—the private investigator I hired weeks ago to find out about Red. I’d all but forgotten about him.

“Hey there,” I say as I pick up. I figure he’s just calling to give me another dead-end update—which is fine by me, because I’m ready to go all in with Lyla.

I’m about to let him down easy when he says, “I found your girl.”

I’m standing in the Vizcaya Gardens waiting for Lyla, my heart rattling in my chest like I just got blindsided on a fourth and long.

I check my phone again, waiting for a text or call that she’s arrived—it’s ten minutes past the time she’s supposed to be here and I haven’t heard from her.

Lyla doesn’t seem to be the type to ghost someone, but she could still be wary of me. For good reason.

I glance down at the video that Charles sent me from the comedy club.

It’s grainy and black and white, but I can see myself clearly, leaning against the outside wall near the parking lot.

And then I watch the moment that Red runs into me.

I’ve watched it more times than I’ve studied Sunday’s defense—which is saying something.

I know every move: how she leans beside me, the lipstick smear, the moment I reach up and wipe it away.

The lipstick moment is the time when I can see her face most clearly—it’s still not great, it is a crappy security camera, after all.

But there are so many details I’d forgotten—her dark, wild hair.

The sharpness of her cheekbones, the curve of her chin, the way her hands flutter elegantly around her as she talks.

I zoom in—not for the first time, and probably not for the last time—and wonder, could it be her?

Could it be Lyla ? It’s not the first time I’ve had this thought, but up until this moment, I’d all but forgotten what Red’s face looked like.

I still can’t see it clearly, but there are details about her that remind me of Lyla.

But I also wonder if I’m just projecting what I want to see.

If it is her, and she hasn’t said anything . . . is it because she doesn’t remember me either? Or because she does—and regrets it?

I run my fingers through my hair—forgetting that I put product in it that makes it stiff and super weird to touch.

I check my watch, but the time is wrong.

The battery’s dead—I just wear it because it looks cool.

I flip through my text messages with Lyla—there’s not many there, but she did give me a smile emoji after I said I couldn’t wait to see her. That’s a good sign, right?

I let out a shuddering breath and stuff my phone into my pocket. Footsteps sound behind me and I turn, hoping for it to be Lyla—my heart hitches like it’s about to run a stutter route—but it’s not Lyla, just another person walking the gardens.

I realize I want Lyla to be Red. Badly. But even if she’s not, I’m going all in.

Sure, I had a nice time with Red—she made me catch a glimpse of what I could have.

She gave me hope for the kind of relationship I was capable of having.

Sincerity. Sweetness. Security that she’s not after me for my fame or fortune.

But Lyla is all of those things too—and so much more.

If only she would show up.