I decide that’s exactly what I’m going to do as I finish putting my makeup on.

Gritting my teeth, I slowly make my way down the stairs to the first floor, still leaning heavily on my cane for balance. My legs get weak and shaky fast. I wonder how I would look to a man if this were actually a real date—a woman in skinny jeans, white cotton flowy blouse, wearing sneakers and clutching a cane, wandering around with amnesia and a nervous smile.

I don’t think I’d be considered a catch. I’m terrified of being viewed as a burden.

Does it bother Asher that he was alone for years, not dating or having fun with a woman—physically or otherwise—to now be stuck with the haphazard package that is me? Someone who takes handfuls of pills daily, needs weekly doctor visits, and doesn’t have anything resembling a nice body?

Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him for feeling disappointed or if he wanted to throw in the towel and start over with someone new.

When I get to the four-season porch, the French doors leading to the back deck are open, and I realize with a gasp that I never should’ve doubted Asher’s interest in our date.

The outdoor furniture that’s usually on the deck has been moved and hidden somewhere. In its place is a black table and chairs under a canopy shrouded in black and red gauzy fabric that’s been tied back, creating a private, romantic dining area. On the other side of the deck is a red-velvet couch with a black coffee table set in front of it, all perched on top of a fuzzy, white rug. Random candles are everywhere, some on ornate metal stands of various heights, others on the deck railing.

Faint classical music is playing from the speaker system installed around the deck and backyard.

I don’t see him at first, leaning against the railing in the far corner. He’s clad in dark blue jeans, pointy black leather boots, and black blazer over a tight white T-shirt. Rows of leather and metal bracelets wind around his wrists. Dark hair with light streaks cascades over his shoulders.

How is it possible that he seems to keep getting better-looking?

He’s been watching me with that wistful smile of his, and when our eyes finally meet, my heart dances. He comes to me where I stand by the doors, instantly reaching for my hand to lead me to the dining table.

“I love your hair that way,” he says. “You look beautiful.”

Beachy waves, Sarah called it when she taught me how to curl it.

“Thank you. So do you.” Ugh. Cringe. “Handsome, I mean.”

He pulls my chair out like a gentleman, putting my cane to the side and helping me sit before he takes the seat across from me.

Teen Ember was right. He is pretty amazing.

“Asher…I’m speechless.” I glance at the low centerpiece of black and red roses, the black tablecloth and red napkins. “This is all so pretty.” And romantic. And surreal.

He motions to something behind me, and I turn to see a young man in black trousers and a white shirt approaching the table with a pitcher of water and ice.

“Good evening,” the man says as my mouth falls open in surprise. “I’ll be bringing your appetizers out in a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink?”

I shake my head. “Water is perfect.”

“I’ll take an iced tea with lemon.”

Nodding, he fills our water glasses then disappears back into the house.

“You hired a waiter?” I ask.

“He’s a chef, actually, but he’s playing waiter tonight too. He’s been busy all afternoon. I asked Sarah to try to keep you away from the kitchen all day.”

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” I say, but I’m elated that he actually did.

“Of course I did. It’s our second date. I didn’t want to be running back and forth to the kitchen when I want to give you all my attention.” He winks at me, and the butterflies stir in my stomach.

“Hopefully soon I’ll be okay to go to a real restaurant with you. Although staying here with you with all this seems nicer than going out.”

“I agree,” he says as the man comes back to the table with Asher’s drink and a big plate of stuffed zucchini, potato skins, and tiny burritos—some filled with chicken and avocado, others with steak and cheese.

I cut up my food into tiny pieces, shoving the small pieces of chicken off to the side, chewing slowly, resting between each bite. Eating was something I had to relearn while in rehab. After the coma, I no longer recognized hunger pains. Once the feeding tube was out and I was eating on my own, I had to set a timer every few hours to remind myself to eat and drink water or juice. Holding a fork was difficult at first. Chewing and swallowing seemed odd and unnatural. I feared I would choke on everything.