“Thanks.”
I disconnected the call and locked the car, my heart pounding. If this didn’t work, I’d be back at the internet café, sorting through a list of men old enough to be my father. I’d be back in the minivan, driving through dark neighborhoods looking for a safe place to park at night. I took a jittery breath and let it out slowly.
I entered the coffee shop and spotted him at a back table, a large mug in front of him, already knowing what was in it. Black coffee.
I felt a surge of power, as if I was the director of a play, calling the shots, controlling the pace. I was a stranger to him, and yet I knew what he liked and didn’t like. I knew what he wanted and what he cared about.
There was a small possibility he’d remember my face from the halls of Northside High. If he did, I planned to lean into it. Confess a crush. So embarrassing!
I ordered my own cup of black coffee and carried it toward him, plastering a hopeful expression on my face as I neared his table.
“Roger?” I said, and held my breath, waiting for a flash of recognition in his eyes.
But there was none. “Sorry, no,” he said with a kind smile. Up close, the golden hazel of his eyes was framed by thick eyelashes, a faint tan line of a wetsuit around his neck.
I sank into a seat at the table next to him. “That’s embarrassing. Blind date,” I explained.
He smiled. “Same.”
“It never gets any easier, does it?”
He offered a noncommittal shrug and I let it sit, sipping my coffee, biding my time.
After about twenty minutes, he began checking his phone more frequently, looking for a missed call or text. I mirrored him, glancing between the door and my own phone on the table in front of me. At one point, I offered him an awkward smile, which he returned. I grew tense, wondering if he’d leave before Cal’s call, and tried to think of a way to keep him there. I was about to turn toward him with a comment about the weather when my phone rang.
“Hello?” I said.
“Here’s the call I promised you. I’ve got to run, but fill me in tomorrow.”
Cal disconnected, but I kept talking. “Oh. I see.” I closed my eyes, as if I were fighting off a crushing disappointment, letting my shoulders drop. “I understand. No really, it’s fine.” I let my voice wobble on the word fine, and out of the corner of my eye, I could tell Cory was listening. “Well, congratulations, I guess.” Another pause. “Yeah, thanks.”
I disconnected the call and stared down at my cold coffee, as if I didn’t know what to do next. Finally, I looked up, embarrassed and hurt. “He got back together with his girlfriend,” I said.
Cory gestured toward my phone. “At least you got the courtesy of a call.”
“Meeting someone in Los Angeles is impossible,” I said, echoing a thread from one of Cory’s messages to Amelia yesterday.
“Tell me about it. It’s like trying to find a winning lottery ticket.”
“Playing the lottery is fun,” I said. “Dating…not so much.”
Cory laughed. “Let me buy you another coffee. Maybe we can salvage the day after all.”
Good fortune and second chances. Everyone wants to believe those are real.
***
We walked down Main Street, our shoulders brushing, as Cory told me about his job as a high school principal. “The kids have an energy that you can’t find in any other field,” he said. “It’s intoxicating. Their passion. Their potential.”
I thought back to how he spoke of his job to Amelia. “What a privilege to be able to have such a positive influence on young lives,” I said, wondering if he would recognize his own words being spoken back to him. Intentionally spoon-fed in small bites, building a connection he’d feel rather than see.