I put a flier outside the youth sailing center and then headed back up Main Street to a popular coffee shop—aptly namedBehind the Bookstorebecause of its location—got a cappuccino, hung my last flier above the syrups and creamers, and snagged a table in their garden. The sail-covered outdoor seating area had apatio of crushed white shells and smelled so strongly of espresso that I suspected the air itself might be caffeinated.
Headphones already in my ears, I sipped my cappuccino cautiously as my eyes scanned my notes: events in a bulleted list, roughly in the order I imagined them playing out for my main character.This feels like a real story,I thought with reserved optimism. The third bullet readWhen she discovers his betrayal. I transported myself to my character’s office in my mind and my fingers danced across my keyboard, filling the page with details. Her deal has just been announced, and she has that exhausted but gratified feeling. She’s asked to review the list of names of everyone that traded stock of the target company leading up to the announcement—a standard post-signing request she’s completed a dozen times before, never recognizing any of the names. Except this time, when her boyfriend’s name is on the list.That can’t be right, my character thinks when she sees it, scrutinizing the spelling.
As I pondered what she would do next, my eyes lifted from the screen, and I gasped at the sight of a man standing right next to my table, not one foot away. How did I not see him? I took my headphone out of my ear. “Um… Hi?”
How long had he been there? Maybe he needed an extra chair?
“Sorry, didn’t realize you were listening to something. I just asked what you were so focused on?” He gestured toward my laptop.
My lungs drew in another deep breath while I tried not to look too surprised that he, apparently, stopped by just to strike up a conversation with me. His blue eyes held eye contact with mine while he waited for me to respond. He was smartly dressed, holding a to-go coffee cup, looking unhurried. I’d bet good money he was in his early to mid-thirties—the smile lines, the posture.
“Um. Just a project. Of sorts.” Lying wasn’t in my nature, but I also didn’t know him. I wasn’t going to tell him I was writing a short story for fun because I’d recently decided not to deny my creative inclinations anymore. After answering his question in thevaguest way possible, giving him almost nothing to work with, I assumed he’d move on.
“Cool. So, are you visiting for the weekend or do you spend a lot of time here?” he asked, undeterred.
“Oh, I’m…” I hadn’t had to explain my situation to a stranger before, and I was woefully unprepared for the question. What came out of my mouth was a version of the truth. “I usually only get over here once or twice a year, but this summer I’m taking a sabbatical from work, so I’ll be here for a while.”
“That’s great. I’m spending most of the summer here, too. I go back to the city for important meetings here and there, but I’ll work remotely from here for the most part.”
“Boston?”
“New York.”
My stomach churned. I nodded.
He shifted on his feet, seeming reluctant to leave, but not bold enough to sit down without an invitation. It was sort of…cute.
He was, too. His light brown hair was cropped on the sides, a bit fuller on the top. He had soft facial features and clear blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Quiet good looks.
“What do you do when you aren’t on sabbatical?” he asked.
“I’m a lawyer.”
His eyebrows went up. Was he impressed?
“Nice. I work with lawyers all the time. I’m in finance, wealth management.” As soon as he said it, I realized I should’ve asked. When did I become so bad at making conversation with good-looking, age-appropriate men?
I took a breath and gave him a smile for the first time. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Yeah.” He smiled back, brightening those blue eyes even more. I scanned his outfit as he sank into the chair next to mine at the little table—name-brand golf polo, shorts, and expensive-looking leather loafers.
I closed my laptop, giving him my full attention. “Do you have a place here?” I asked.
“My parents do. I’ve been coming here since I was a teenager. I stay in an apartment they have above the garage. What about you?”
“My grandmother does. No garage apartment, just the guest bedroom.”
He smiled, and it again reached his eyes. “Guest bedroom works, too. What’s your favorite thing to do on the island?”
I told him I love meandering through Edgartown and walking or reading at the beaches nearby, particularly Lighthouse Beach. When I asked him the same question, he said he liked boating. He didn’t say whether they owned a boat, but I assumed the answer was yes.
The conversation was easy, pleasant. It became clear as he kept asking me questions that he was flirting with me. In a curious way—not overly aggressive or forward. It’d been so long since I went on a date or even flirted with anyone; I’d forgotten I was someone a person mightwantto flirt with. The flattery of it seeped into my pores, and a hum of something that resembled excitement built under the surface of my skin.
So I flirted back. I asked him about his job (wealth manager), where he lived in New York (Chelsea), where he went to school (Bucknell, and then Northwestern Kellogg for business school). He asked me all the same things, and I got a thrill out of how openly impressed he was when I said corporate attorney, Hudson Yards (formerly), and UPenn. I twirled my golden brown hair around my finger, pleased I’d thought to rim my green eyes with mascara that morning. I hadn’t exactly dressed to impress today in my nylon tennis skort and V-neck T-shirt, but at least the outfit was consistent with what a lot of women wore on the island. And my legs were starting to look toned after all my trips to the gym.
“What’s your name?” I asked, realizing he never mentioned it, and I hadn’t either.
“Max.” He extended his hand to shake mine. It felt a little formal after we’d just shared so many life facts with each other, but I tookit anyway. Warm, firm.
