Chap­ter 7 begins with restraint—intentional dis­tance and cau­tious con­struc­tion. I won’t let him see where I live. Let­ting Eddie glimpse that run-down com­plex, the sag­ging roof, or—worse—crossing paths with John, would strip away every­thing I’ve built. So I insist on meet­ing him in Eng­lish Vil­lage, one of those quaint, man­i­cured cor­ners of Moun­tain Brook that locals refer to as “vil­lages,” as if this curat­ed afflu­ence need­ed more charm. It’s the kind of place where every­thing smells faint­ly of expen­sive can­dles and old mon­ey.

I arrive ear­ly, park­ing sev­er­al blocks away to avoid the risk of him offer­ing to walk me back. When I reach the bistro, he’s wait­ing under a striped awning, look­ing like he stepped out of a lifestyle ad—crisp shirt, fit­ted slacks, and a pres­ence that radi­ates calm con­fi­dence. His hand rests gen­tly on the small of my back as we’re seat­ed, and it sends a cur­rent through me that feels both thrilling and dan­ger­ous. The space glows with soft light­ing and qui­et elegance—white linen table­cloths, can­dles in pressed glass, and that hushed tone peo­ple adopt when they’re used to being served.

The wine he orders is expensive—far beyond what I’d choose on my own—and it reminds me again that I’m not just at din­ner, I’m being audi­tioned for a life. I tuck my menu away and let him take the lead. Maybe it’s manip­u­la­tive. Maybe it’s just sur­vival. But when you’ve grown up with noth­ing, know­ing how to play along is a skill. A nec­es­sary one. He asks if I trust him to order, and I say I like every­thing. It lands with more heat than I expect­ed. His smile deep­ens, and it’s obvi­ous he enjoys hear­ing that.

Then his gaze shifts, not to my face, but to the neck­lace. My chest tight­ens the moment he com­ments on it. It’s not valuable—just a del­i­cate sil­ver chain I lift­ed from one of the hous­es in the neighborhood—but the bee charm is unmis­tak­able. I hadn’t real­ized its resem­blance until it was too late. He notes its sim­i­lar­i­ty to the pieces Bea’s com­pa­ny once made. South­ern Manors. I try to brush it off, call­ing it a gift, but I know he noticed the way I touched it. My hand goes there instinc­tive­ly, like I could shield it.

The con­ver­sa­tion fal­ters until I steer it elsewhere—asking about his child­hood, steer­ing him away from her. He talks about Maine, about leav­ing as soon as he could. I sip my wine and pre­tend this is nor­mal. That I belong here, with this man, dis­cussing lob­ster rolls and coastal fog, not check­ing my phone every ten min­utes in case John’s called to com­plain about rent. When Eddie speaks, it’s with the ease of some­one who’s done this a thou­sand times before. But not with me. I remind myself that, in this moment, I’m the one across from him, not her.

He talks about his busi­ness, how he moved for work, and final­ly set­tled here—because Bea want­ed South­ern Manors to be an Alaba­ma brand. It’s clear he feels a sense of duty to keep her dream alive. That’s not some­thing I can com­pete with—not eas­i­ly, any­way. His voice soft­ens when he men­tions her. Not ten­der, exact­ly. But care­ful. Like there are parts of her mem­o­ry he keeps sealed off. I nod, not push­ing, grate­ful when the food arrives and gives us a new dis­trac­tion.

I tell him sto­ries about “Jane”—a ver­sion of myself that’s true enough to feel hon­est, but craft­ed care­ful­ly. There are real mem­o­ries in there, yes. Child­hood facts. Teen years in Ari­zona. But the rest is adjusted—bent around the edges, filed down where it’s too sharp. And Eddie lis­tens, real­ly lis­tens, as if every word adds anoth­er stroke to the pic­ture he’s paint­ing of me. By the time dessert arrives, I’m more relaxed than I thought I’d be. The check appears, and he pays with­out look­ing at the total. It’s not about the money—it’s about the ease with which he spends it. With which he holds the world.

When we leave, he links my arm through his, and we step into the warm night air. My dress brush­es his leg as we walk, and it’s deliberate—I want him to feel me beside him. We pass pud­dles glow­ing under lamp­light, and my hair curls slight­ly in the humid­i­ty. I’m tempt­ed to ask him if I can come home with him, not for sex nec­es­sar­i­ly, but for the qui­et mag­ic of enter­ing that per­fect house under moon­light. I want to see what it looks like at night. I want to see myself in it.

“You’re qui­et,” he says. I smile up at him and say, “Can I be hon­est?” He nods, amused, and I admit it’s been a long time since I’ve been on a real date. He agrees. It’s sim­ple, but the moment hums with poten­tial. My fin­gers toy with the fab­ric of his sleeve, feel­ing the weight of every­thing I still don’t know about him.

Then it hap­pens. A voice calls out. “Eddie!” We turn in uni­son, and my chest tight­ens as I spot the man on the sidewalk—another pas­tel-draped Thorn­field neigh­bor. The kind with a forced smile and too-smooth hair. One of those inter­change­able men who all seem to blend togeth­er in this neigh­bor­hood. What­ev­er mag­ic exist­ed in our moment van­ish­es as we brace our­selves for inter­rup­tion.

And just like that, my per­fect night—a date that felt like it belonged to some­one else’s life—is now being watched. Judged. Realigned under the weight of some­one else’s gaze. But I remind myself: this is the game. These are the peo­ple I need to win over. And I’m get­ting clos­er. Clos­er than they real­ize.