Page 102 of Fate Fiction

“My agent finally got me on an indie movie,” he exhaled a puff of air from spitting out the answer a little too quickly. I didn’t react. “It’s a horror about a grad student who believes he is experiencing psychosis but the campus is actually transforming into an evil entity. The director and screenwriter are both based here, so I’m meeting with them a few times to talk things through.”

That’s not what I had really asked, I knew that, and Evan knew that. But for now he’d dance around the real question of us meeting up like this. An ambulance wailed in the distance, we had barely made it a block from my apartment.

A fleeting thought passed of whether he had pursued this project because it was heavily based out of Boston. Of course, I corrected myself, that would be delusional. There couldn’t be a rational universe where he’d want to see me. Logic set in, I convinced myself that it was likely by complete chance, he had to have signed on before realizing where the project was based out of. He was here to tell me to stay away. If he was trying to actively avoid me, just as he had for the last four months, working on a film based in my city was a horrible way to do it.

“Should we continue?” Evan asked, cocking his eyebrow. I was broken out of the hazy confusion that settled over me.

“Sure, sorry, I got distracted.”

We continued walking, letting the discomfort hang like a thick fog above us. Processing this all was strange, there was the familiarity of my neighborhood, and the familiarity of him, and yet together it felt all so foreign. His tangibility had ebbed and flowed, he was first an untouchable imaginary figure, then a figment of my imagination that flew into my life for a week, and then a haunting memory that would cause me to wake in a cold sweat at night. Now, he was something of a blurry image, someone who towed the line between real and not, TV static with images cutting through.

Somehow a walk that should have taken ten minutes felt like hours. I checked the landmarks and street names multiple times to make sure we weren’t accidentally making a giant loop around the neighborhood. When the restaurant with its black stucco facade and vintage neon signs in the windows came into view, I was relieved. We hadn’t walked far but I was desperately in need of sitting down. And a margarita.

When my hand grasped around the door, Evan clutched my shoulder. Dormant sparks flickered back to life. He slipped on a pair of round glasses and tousled his sandy waves. He looked like himself, but somehow not like himself.

“Clark Kent much?” I stiffly joked, unfortunately he looked even better with the glasses on. I learned something new about myself.

“It works surprisingly well,” he shrugged, letting out a light chuckle.

Anything to disperse the tension.

The employee at the host stand stared at Evan, trying to piece together where they recognized him from when we walked in.

“Hi, two please. Table in the back would be ideal,” I cheerily said to them.

I felt Evan’s gaze wander from taking in the strings of Christmas lights that covered the ceiling over to me.

“Thank you,” he mouthed.

The restaurant was definitely divey, but oddly comforting. The scent of fajitas sizzling on skillets and freshly squeezed limes wafted through the air. The tables were filled with mostly young couples or small groups, all entranced in conversation with one another. Too busy to notice Evan as he walked with his head down.

We couldn’t so much as manage pleasantries with each other before a server manifested in front of us and asked for our drink orders. I sputtered out my preferred spicy margarita. Evan rapped his fingers on the table, brows furrowing as he took in the menu.

“He’ll have a Corona with lime,” I said, and the server flitted away. “Was that okay?”

“Yeah, uh perfect actually, thanks.”

“Did you forget how to order at a restaurant like us regular folk?”

Goofy riffing on one another was easy, authenticity was much harder.

“Funny, but no. I was distracted by the six different types of nachos they have listed. I’m starving. I haven't eaten all day.”

Was it from nerves or because you’re shedding weight for whatever season of Thorndown you’re about to film next, I wondered.

I sat tensely, munching on the complimentary chips and salsa, holding out for the inevitable turn towards whatever Evan actually came to speak to me about. He was unfazed, save for his nervous tapping.

“Evan. Seriously. Why are you here? Why are we doing this?” I let the tension pull so taut that it snapped a little too hard. I was milliseconds away from getting up and running off.

“I feel like our last interaction was…” he seemed to struggle to find the right way to phrase that night, “…less than ideal.”

That was the understatement of the century and an absurdly diplomatic way of putting things. Evan fiddled with my straw wrapper, avoiding eye contact. Something lurked beneath the surface, a shark waiting to strike.

I cleared my throat too loudly. “Listen. I’m really, really sorry about the whole fanfiction thing, and lying to you about it. I don’t know what else to say about it,” I was looking away from him and the words kept coming out. “I know that it was so fucking weird of me to think that I could keep that a secret and it was wrong, so incredibly wrong to keep you in the dark. And I don’t fault you whatsoever for reacting how you did, honestly if I were in your position I probably would’ve reacted even more poorly.” Flashes of his narrowed eyes and tensed jaw passed through my mind, “if anything you’re giving me too much grace here. I know that it won’t undo any of the damage from that night but if it’s any consolation I’m completely done with anything Thorndown. So, if you need to tell me off or serve up a restraining order or lawsuit you can get it over with before we have to sit through this entire dinner together.”

Evan was still staring at the table. Still fiddling with the paper wrapper. I lowered my shaking hands and stuffed them under my thighs to quell the trembling.

“That’s not why I’m here at all,” he said in a whisper.