I didn't tell Knox and Kohl that I was going out on a date with Cage, just that we were going out to catch up. I wanted to wait and see how the night goes before even thinking of telling them that their father and I might date. 

After Cage had left yesterday, I called Quinn, demanding to know if a date with him was a bad idea—it definitely felt like a topic I needed my best friend for.

She talked me through all my worries and told me there is no harm in testing the waters.

If it works out, great.

If not, well, at least we'll know we tried.

She was right, though she usually is. It doesn't hurt to go on one date and to give this adult version Cage a chance. 

That was one thing she mentioned that started to make the worry lessen: he wasn't a teenager anymore, and neither was I. We both have lived different lives that shaped us into the adults we are today.

Like always, Quinn could easily tell when my emotions changed, shifting from worried to nervous excitement. Before we hung up, she told me that she'll be showing up at my door tomorrow evening to help me pick out an outfit. She also demanded I let her watch the kids after I told her I was going to ask my parents, saying Knox and Kohl don't spend nearly enough time with their Aunty Quinny.

I could argue that she sees them every other day at the very least, but why would I? She loves them, and any time she wishes to spend with them, I'll let her.

“Catch up?” Knox asks, leaning his back against my headboard, hand buried in a bag of barbeque chips.

Kohl sits next to him with a handful of chips, crunching away, both watching me try to get ready. 

I shoot daggers at Quinn, who pointedly avoids my gaze, eyes glued to the silvery blue polish in her hand. 

She sits cross-legged on the floor, a small table tray in front of her with her nail kit, and polishes sores across the limited surface.

Quinn knows that I don't want Knox and Kohl to have junk food if they haven't had a proper dinner yet. I try not to let them eat too many unhealthy foods, like the ice cream after they had gotten suspended. I try to keep their diet balanced, letting them have sweet treats but making sure they also eat plenty of vegetables. 

I sigh, deciding to let it slide for the night, and the fact he's eating food in my bed.

I pick up a long black turtleneck sweater dress off the foot of my bed, hand gripping the skirt as I press it against my body. Turning side to side, I study my reflection in the mirror, a small frown pulling at my lips, and I feel three sets of eyes scrutinizing me.

“It’s cute, but no. You're going—catching up with an old friend, not going to some hipster’s cafe poetry reading funeral or whatever.” Quinn almost slips up, dismissing the outfit with a wave, going back to painting her nails.

Quinn was born and raised in Seattle, Washington, a former Seattleite, as she likes to call herself. I'm sure during her years of residency there, she found herself at a poetry reading in some hipster cafe a time or two.

Though, I doubt she'll ever admit that.

“What's a hipster?” Kohl asks, eyes wide with childlike curiosity, popping a chip in his mouth.

“I don't think anyone really knows anymore.” Quinn sighs, eyes flickering up to me briefly. “Why don't you wear that skirt I bought you? That fall plaid midi swing skirt, it's got that wooly texture. Pair it with that high-necked, orangish-brown, balloon-sleeved sweater of yours. I'll let you wear my knee-high boots; they'll go perfectly with the outfit.”

Padding my way over to my small walk-in closet, hangers clank, clothing swishing as I look for what she mentioned.

Tonight will technically be the first real date I've had since way before I gave birth to the twins, or ever really. I don't think my night with Cage back then really counts as a date, since he only asked if I wanted to leave the party with him. We ended up hanging out and getting food, but he never said it was a date, and doesn't someone have to call it a date for it to be one?

I'm also not counting the few dates I went on with Noah. They were so awkward, us trying to force a romance when we only felt platonic feelings for each other.

Finding the articles of clothing, I shed the pajamas I'm wearing, throwing on the sweater and skirt.

I stride out of the closet, the knee-length skirt flaring out with every step I take, traveling across the carpet to stand in the middle of my room.

Sounds of crunching abruptly stop; a small clunk sounds as Quinn sets down her silvery blue polish.

Knox and Kohl stare at me with wide eyes; I haven't quite figured out if that's a bad thing or not.

One side of Quinn's raspberry lips tilts up in a smirk, mossy green orbs shining with satisfaction; lastly, she gives me a small nod of approval.

“Perfect," she declares.

“Really?” I ask, fidgeting with a sweater sleeve.

“You look perfect, Mom.” Knox and Kohl parrots, smiling at me encouragingly.

“Thank you, boys.” I walk over to them, laying a kiss atop their heads.

Knox and Kohl quickly grow bored when Quinn and I start to talk hair, make-up, and what jewelry I should wear.

Once they're gone, I plop down next to Quinn, careful to not jostle her as my arms go around her in a side hug. My head falls to her shoulder, releasing a small, blissful sigh, as I snuggle into her.

“You're the best, did you know that?” I ask, my eyes locking on hers in the mirror in front of us.

“You are too; it's nice having a friend that I know would be there for me no matter what.” Quinn sets the polish down, placing her hand on my arm, gently squeezing, eyes slightly darkening. “With who, who shall not be named, I was always the one rushing to her aid. Whenever I needed someone, she gave me endless excuses, some party that she just had to be at, or this date with a guy she's been waiting forever to ask her out. I felt so stupid back then; how did I not know she was sleeping with my boyfriend? She was supposed to be my best friend; I should have seen some sort of sign.”

I think back to two years ago when we first met.

I had noticed a car parked in front of Sugar Rush for some time, squinted my eyes, unsure I was really seeing someone in the car. They barely moved for the entire hour they sat there, a head of strawberry hair resting on the steering wheel they were white-knuckling. Hesitantly I had knocked on her window; she was so startled she literally jumped into the roof of her car. Rubbing the top of her head, she turned watery moss-green eyes to me, with fresh tear tracks on her cheeks.

Without a second thought, I opened her door—it’s Rushmore; we are annoyingly nosey—and offered her a hand that she had looked at skeptically, then slowly took.

I led her into my bakery, gave her a chocolate cupcake, and we talked for hours.

She didn't know what her next steps were, so I had asked if maybe she wanted to stick around Rushmore until she figured it out. Told her that I could use some help with Sugar Rush—at the time I didn't have any employees hired just yet, and that baking is strangely therapeutic.

Well, the rest is history, as they say.

We've been friends, and eventually business partners, ever since.

“I’ve never had a friend like you before, and I'm really grateful you decided to stay.” I smack a kiss on her cheek to lighten the mood, scooting away from her before she can hit me.

“Grooooss,” Quinn fakes disgust, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “Okay, now hurry and do your makeup and leave your hair down!”

“Yes, Ma'am.” I mumble, tugging the hair tie out of my hair.

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A knock comes at the door at exactly seven o'clock; Quinn’s borrowed walnut leather boots with an almond toe create a metronomic clack on the hardwood floors, barely being heard over the twins' ruckus.

They're arguing movies, Knox doesn't want to watch a Christmas movie, but Kohl does.

Smoothing down my hair, careful to not disturb the soft ringlets I curled the strands into, I open the door.

My eyes fall on his back first, hands raised, fidgeting with his own hair.

They fall at the sound of the door opening; he spins, eyes widening as he takes me in.

“Wow,” Cage whispers, awestruck. “You look breathtaking.”

“Thank you, you look nice as well.” A blush darkens my cheeks crimson; tilting my head down, I try to hide, my hair becoming a chestnut curtain. 

He really does in his olive green button-down that brings out the green tones in his eyes, tucked into medium-wash bootcut Levi's. Brown cowboy boots, scuffed from years of wear and tear. His hair, a mop of unruly curls, parted down the center, the longer pieces in the back brushing against the collar of his Carhartt coat, the same burnt whiskey color as his boots.

He steps inside just as feet thump on the floor, racing this way.

“Dad!” Kohl comes running down the hall, ramming into Cage's waist, small arms embracing him. “Are you and Mom going to be gone for long? Aunt Quinny brought over a bunch of Christmas movies. Do you want to watch them with us? She says it's never not a good time to watch Christmas movies, but Knox thinks they should only be watched in December.”

Quinn comes over and disentangles him from Cage's waist, looking down at her nephew adoringly. 

“I’m right; besides, tomorrow is December first.” Quinn squeezes his cheek, and he smacks her hand, attempting and failing to leave her grasp.

Knox moseys his way into the hall, offering Cage a small wave. “Hey, Dad. You’re wrong, Aunt Quinn, and that's tomorrow, not today.”

“I don't know, Knox, it's never not a good time to watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas,” Cage pipes in.

Knox sighs like he's never been more disappointed in his life.

We share a chuckle at his antics.

“We shouldn't be out too long, but if it's too late when we get back, we'll all watch Christmas movies another time.” I tell Kohl, who pouts.

“We have a lot to catch up on, but I promise to watch Christmas movies with you soon.” Cage reaches forward with two fingers on either side of Kohl's mouth, pulling the corners up into a smile.

He fights it at first, but it doesn't take long for him to give a blinding smile, giggling.

“Okay,” Kohl concedes.

“Alright, Kohly Poly, how about we go get a movie picked out? We better hurry up before Knoxygen in there puts something Non-Christmasy on.” Quinn gently nudges Kohl towards the living room.

“Quinn, you have got to stop with the nicknames; you're going to traumatize my children.” I laugh when Cage raises a brow at the odd nicknames Quinn has given the kids.

Though she is still considering her options for Knox's—though, Knoxygen isn't as bad as Kno-yo.

“Bye, Dad! Bye, Mom, I love you!” He waves, scurrying off to join his brother.

“I expect her to be back by ten, and have fun.” Quinn calls over her shoulder, following after him; before she goes around the corner, she stops, eyes narrowed. “But not too much fun!”

“I'll have her back by then,” Cage vows, helping me with my coat.

I free the curls that got caught beneath the collar, following Cage out the door, closing it behind us.

Cage races down the driveway to open the passenger door for me. “Your chariot awaits, milady.” He holds a hand out, helping me in.

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” I do a little curtsey, and taking his hand, I step up into the truck.

Cage bows, closes the door, rounds the hood, hops in, and starts the engine. The song we danced to under firework-lit skies plays, and he turns the sound down, cheeks flushing.

“I was thinking about you a lot after I asked you out; I was worried you might change your mind. Feeling nostalgic about our time together back then, on the way here I decided to play it.” He nervously taps his finger on the steering wheel, a hand pushed back golden locks. 

“So where are we going?” I ask, trying to shift his focus and hopefully ease his nerves.

“To Bryce.”

Just like all those years ago, my eyes widened, head whipping to him.

“What?!”

Cage bursts out laughing, head leaning against the wheel as his shoulders shake.

“I'm kidding,” he chokes out, slowly calming down. “We're not going to Bryce.”

“That's not any more funny than it was then!” I smack his back, rolling my eyes.

Cage sits up, eyes still glowing with amusement, flickering to mine. He reaches over, pushing a wayward strand behind my ear, eyes softening the longer he stares.

“It is a little bit.”

As we drive away from my house, I look out my window at the blurring scenery, hiding my small smile from him.

He's right; it is a little bit funny. 

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