He Was Grumpy… Until Jazz
By seven o’clock, I was at his door with my hair done and my posture perfect.
He opened the door with the same grim expression as always, like smiling would cost him money.
Inside, he gestured at the table.
No pulled-out chair.
No flowers.
Just food and a man who clearly didn’t know what to do with a woman in his house.
At first, conversation was a slog.
Short answers. Long silences.
Then I mentioned jazz.
It was like flipping a switch.
His face softened.
His eyes lit up.
“I’d play my favorite record for you,” he said, almost shy. “But my record player’s broken.”
I surprised myself.
“You don’t need music to dance,” I said.
He stood, extended his hand.
We swayed in his dim living room while he hummed a tune I hadn’t heard in years.
And for the first time since I moved in with Andrew and Kate, I didn’t feel like a burden.
When the night ended, he walked me to the door.
He hesitated like he was about to do something reckless.
“You can call me Peter,” he said softly.
“And you can call me Margaret,” I replied.
Then he leaned in and kissed me.
Gentle. Careful. Not young-love fireworks—something quieter and more dangerous.
Something that felt like a second chance.
I went home smiling, and the smile stayed.
Peter became part of my days.
We cooked together. Read books from his shelves. Laughed over gossip like teenagers.
He hummed while I chopped vegetables.
He listened when I spoke.
He made me feel… wanted.
Kate’s sharp remarks stopped mattering.
My world revolved around Peter.
So when Thanksgiving came, I refused to let him spend it alone.
I invited him to dinner.
And I almost wish I hadn’t.
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