Violet vented her frustrations on her salad, but Noah could tell she was still upset about her jealous friend and her wayward brother. He wasn't always sure what to say in such situations, but she seemed comforted by his presence, even when he fumbled his words. He supposed the thought counted.
To cheer her up, Noah ordered grilled pineapple for dessert. Grilled fruit, a recent restaurant trend offering a healthier dessert option, was one of Violet's favorites, as it avoided the restrictions placed on traditional desserts.
She smiled gratefully after they finished their entrées. "You read my mind. I really needed a treat today."
"It's my duty as your best friend," he replied, his mock-serious tone making her laugh.
The heaviness that had surrounded her earlier lifted. Thank goodness. A happy Violet was always the best Violet.
Comforting each other had been a natural part of their relationship since toddlerhood, when even minor upsets—like not getting a desired toy—required consolation. Noah usually comforted Violet rationally and with treats; she, in turn, problem-solved for him and offered encouragement. It was a mutually beneficial system, but the problem was its stagnation.
He’d fallen into the friend zone—the worst mistake of his life—and feared it might be too late to escape. He’d always been there for her, caring for her more than anyone (excluding her family), but that meant nothing if she took it for granted. His presence was as natural and constant as any of her brothers'.
He considered distancing himself to make her realize what she was missing, but worried this would make her feel like a burden. She already had the ridiculous notion that she burdened everyone, a belief he couldn't change. Their balanced relationship was the exception.
He couldn't jeopardize that balance, but he was out of ideas. Moreover, he couldn't imagine life without her, given their constant presence in each other's lives—every birthday, triumph, and failure. He'd supported her through her Juilliard rejection, and she'd been there when he'd reached the karate semifinals without winning.
Over the years, he'd grown accustomed to their unromantic relationship. He hadn't minded as long as she was by his side, but age brought the fear of someone else stealing her away. He needed to act before someone else did.
"Vi, what's your type?" he asked casually.
She laughed, thinking it was a joke. "Trying to set me up on a blind date?"
Frustrated, he knew she couldn't see he'd rather die than set her up with another man. He shrugged it off. "I'm curious. You haven't dated in a while."
He knew it was due to her schedule: work, him, home—no time for dating. This was a relief; in college, she'd been constantly asked out, but none of those relationships lasted.
What impossibly high standards did she have? Could he ever meet them?
She frowned thoughtfully. "I don't think I have a type."
He raised an eyebrow. "No common thread among the guys you've dated?"
"Not really. I guess I initially liked them for something cute, funny, or romantic, but beyond that…"
It all came down to romance. He’d done romantic things—flowers at every performance—but she didn't see them as such because her brothers did similar things. He needed something more, something undeniably non-brotherly.
His chance came when paying the bill. He paid for her salad, in addition to the dessert. She was surprised, knowing his dojo earnings weren't high, but thanked him and moved on. A start.
They hung out at his family's place for a couple of hours, talking and playing cards. As soon as Violet left, he searched online for what women considered romantic. Most lists focused on romantic gestures during a relationship, which was unhelpful! He already did many of those things, yet she remained oblivious. This was his reward for falling for someone emotionally constipated.
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