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I glance down and check. I don’t, because I always choose them last.
“Then how about a cup of coffee?” His smile is charming, and I don’t get any pushy, funky vibes from him. He’s not predatory like the men on his brother’s construction crew are, but still, accepting impromptu dates isn’t something I have practice with. Saying no and rejecting men is my norm. Back home, I never had time to date. Here, though…
What’s holding me back now?
I refrain from letting my sadness of missing Dalton take over me. He’s not here anymore. He chose not to be here anymore.
“Uh, now’s not a great time…”
I hate that I hedge. Where is that brave woman Lauren was talking about? I don’t feel like her right now.
“Oh. That’s fine.”
Fine. I hate that word.
“But tomorrow, I’m free.” I slap that reply—and acceptance—out there before I can think it through.
“Great!” He brightens and tells me where a good place to go would be. “And if Earl and Ken aren’t hogging the chessboard up front at the café, maybe we can play a game.” He winks. “I teach math, if it’s not obvious.”
Groan. I smile anyway. “I’ll see you then.”
After he leaves, I continue shopping and focus on my list of things to get. It’s neutral grounds. A bulleted list of things I need. No emotions. No analysis required. Because deep down, I get too near freaking out. I cannot believe I just said yes to a date like that. That’s not me. It’s not who I want to be, but on the flip side, I talk myself out of blowing it way out of proportion.
It’s just coffee. And chess.
I wince as I scan the ingredients of a mustard that sounds interesting.
Chess. With a math guy.
Of all the subjects. If he tries to talk shop and discuss anything related to the subject he teaches, I’ll risk staring at him with boredom like one of the students he likely teaches.
It’s not a date though.
If I look bored, then I’ll be bored. I don’t have to impress him. I don’t have to even like him.
I don’t know him to like him. We literally just met.
“Stop,” I whisper to myself.
I’m already getting carried away with the enormity of what I’ve agreed to. A date. Or not-a-date. Either way, whichever it ends up being and however Kevin intends it to be, it doesn’t sit well with me, like I’m forcing myself too hard, like I’m expecting too many changes to happen too soon.
I haven’t moved on from Dalton, not at all. He’s always on my mind, and as I finish shopping, check out, then lug my two bags onto my arms for the short walk to my apartment, it’s him I can’t stop thinking about. Not the new guy who is showing clear interest in me.
Glancing up at the intersection, I check that the pedestrian light has changed. That’s when I see him. It’s kismet. It’s fate. It’s the uncanny timing of a coincidence in this universe that he’s right there on the other side of the street striding down the path.
“Dalton!” I yell across the street, but he doesn’t stop walking.
A hat covers his head, giving him more of a Coloradoan and outdoorsy ruggedness than the fancy suit he’s probably more used to in the city. His dark hair is visible beneath the edge of the knitted headgear, and I’d recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. From this distance, he’s as tall as ever, and his long, jean-clad legs eat up the sidewalk as he walks further from the intersection.
“Dalt—” I give up on shouting his name. He’s too far to hear me, and as soon as the light changes, I run. My bags smack against me. That bread will be a smushed mess now. People glance at me or smirk with dirtier looks when I almost barrel through the people to rush after Dalton.
I can’t believe he’s actually here. He’s come back! I don’t know why he’d be downtown. Maybe Lauren directed him here. Something. It’s just a miracle that he’s really, truly here in the flesh!
I panic that I’ll lose him and pick up my pace. I’m not a runner. I’ve tried to embrace it because it’s just another way to be outside, but I’m too short, too flat-footed to make it happen. As it is, I sprint as fast as I can. Once I’m close enough, I resist the giddy urge to call his name, lunging forward instead to grab his arm and surprise him.
“Dalton.” I grab nothing. The second I touch the arm, he wrenches away, saying “Whoa!”
It’s not his voice. It’s not him. The man who spins to face me, probably thinking I was trying to grab him or take his wallet, is not Dalton. From a distance and through the lens of missing him, he almost resembles the man I yearn for. But it’s not him.
