Page 117 of Fate Fiction

Public transit had been deemed unacceptable by Evan for this “dinner thing.”

He said he’d pick me up at 6:30 to drive us over, and naturally, at 6:29 I received the “here” text.

His punctuality was a flaw. He left hardly any time for my panic to bubble in anticipation of the outing. I gave myself one last look before heading out.

When I received the official invite, I was at work, proofreading a scathing email about workplace sexual harassment. A coworker who I barely interacted with save for mandatory trainings and the annual Christmas party asked if I saw the episode when we passed each other in the break room earlier. I said some appropriately-enthusiastic-yet-dismissive phrase like “oh my god, so crazy!” and exited the conversation before I’d be forced to come face to face with the strange hurricane of feelings that was brewing in me.

Now I was deep in reading the workplace policies cited in the email, checking for any last spelling errors before sending it back to my manager.

My phone lit up and “Maybe: Evan” flashed on the screen.

A link to our reservation sat waiting for me. He’d taken the lead here, I mentioned a few higher end places I’d liked but he seemed to have a clear plan. I clicked on the link and was greeted by a gallery of photos of smoking cocktails, tasting plates, and dimly lit booths. I laughed to myself as I scrolled, I wasn’t even in the right tax bracket to even look at this menu let alone eat there.

Apparently a dinner outing, when it was on Evan’s terms, was a far more opulent affair than a Mexican dive bar. Said dinner outing included a seven o’clock reservation at Lunar, a rooftop bar and restaurant that secured itself a place on multiple “best of” guides.

This wasn’t a casual catch up meal between former fuck buddies, this was a proper date that Evan was taking me on. If we had made it beyond that Friday night last June, this would have been the kind of place Evan would have taken me when I came to New York. I didn’t have time to think through what ifs, because clearly this was real and happening and I was incredibly ill prepared to look like I even remotely belonged at a place like Lunar.

I liked the message and wondered if I should couple it with a “see you then!” or a “can’t wait!”

I wasn’t that girl, especially not with him, and decided the small thumbs up bubble would suffice. My reply when he’d asked me on our call last night was similarly subdued, I couldn’t remember my exact words, I may have nodded and said, “sounds good.” The lack of saccharine enthusiasm remained a self-preservation tactic, something I could rely on to keep myself from falling and ultimately smacking headfirst into the concrete.

I barely recognized myself in the mirror. After months of boots and pants and heavy sweaters, seeing the form fitting vintage maroon velvet dress draped over my skin was like seeing a different body attached to my head.

In a way, I’d forgotten this feminine form of mine, the months I’d existed in this body without giving it so much as a second thought. It served its purpose of allowing me to function, although barely at times. And now, here I was, the fullness of my presence staring me down in the full length mirror.

After tossing my go-to black leather jacket—also vintage—over the dress, I walked out the door to be face to face with Evan on the porch.

“Fuck, you scared me,” I muttered. “I thought you’d be in the car.”

“Hello there.” He looked me up and down, a smirk spreading across his face.

His presence never ceased to startle me.

Here he was, once again, in the flesh. And I couldn’t stop staring. He was decked out in a slate gray suit with a black t-shirt underneath. He had a few day’s worth of beard growth, and it looked like he ran some product through his hair.

“Hi there yourself,” I bit my lip, I wasn’t going to allow myself to be flirty tonight.

Not with him, and especially not knowing what, or who, he’d been doing these past few months.

He was certainly making it incredibly difficult.

Wordlessly, he grabbed my arm and guided me gently down the front steps. Winter ice clinging to the stone stairs and the heels I was teetering in made for a wobbly walk down, and I appreciated the gesture.

I trailed behind him, his warm hands like a muff in this bitter cold, “no rental this time around?” His truck was parked in front of my building like it was meant to be there all along. When I hopped in it still smelled the same, like him. His scent didn’t give me the shivers this time, but the heated seat was already turned on.

“I wanted to actually put some miles on it,” he pulled off into the street, “and I don’t mind the drive from New York.”

Those four hours that separated us could have been a path we wore for the other, distance that would’ve gotten smaller and smaller as we got used to the traffic in Connecticut and tolls on the bridges around New York City. I often thought of train rides I could sit and watch suburbs grow into skyscrapers as I grew closer to him.

We could have made it work, if only I had let it.

“Let’s see how you maneuver through Boston traffic, since you’re a local now,” I said with a smirk. We were driving down my street, a drive I hadn’t thought he’d make again after that night in September.

He shouldn’t be here in the first place.

My quaint and familiar neighborhood soon turned into the soulless corporate skyscrapers that dotted half the city as we started and stopped through Saturday night traffic with the rest of Boston’s population.

Evan shot me a look. “I think you forget I’ve lived in New York for eight years. Traffic is unfortunately part of my being now.” He turned onto one of Boston’s quintessential one-way streets and sat idling behind a sedan blasting house music.