Page 49 of Meant to be Mine

The server came and she ordered a matcha latte with oat milk. I refilled my Americano and tried to remember how to make conversation with a woman I’d just met.

“How do you know Hollis?” I asked.

“I’m a yoga instructor,” she said. “He came in about six months ago with the worst form I’d ever seen in my life. I don’t know how he hadn’t injured himself.”

“That tracks,” I said.

She laughed again. “He’s actually gotten really good. He works hard.”

She continued talking. She wasn’t unpleasant. Nice. Attractive. And I wanted to be anywhere else on the planet. A month ago, I would have charmed the yoga pants right off her without breaking a sweat. But I sat across from her and felt nothing.

Layla was talking about a retreat she was planning in Italy or Spain or fucking Mexico. I had zoned out. Something about restorative practices and the way altitude affected the body’s relationship to stillness. I nodded along but I kept thinking about Kensey and her mouth.

“Drew?”

I snapped back. Layla was watching me with a small, patient smile.

“Sorry,” I said. “Long week.”

“You seem like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not usually this distracted.”

“It’s okay.” She turned her cup slowly on the table. “Hollis said you’ve been working insane hours.”

“That’s part of it,” I said.

The conversation stalled. It was my fault. My heart wasn’t in this at all. We lasted another twenty minutes before she remembered she had a class. I had been a horrible date. I felt bad, but I just couldn’t bring myself to fake it.

I was out the door before Layla had fully disappeared around the corner. I didn’t look back. I wasn’t proud of how badly I’d tanked that, but I also wasn’t going to spend any more time sitting there pretending to be interested when all I could think about was her.

I pulled out my phone before I even reached the car.

Me: The date was terrible. I’m going to pick up lunch. Do you want anything?

I got in the car, started it, and blasted the AC.

Kensey sent a photo of what appeared to be the most depressing salad I’d ever seen in my life. Pale lettuce. A few cherry tomatoes. Something that might have been cucumber. No dressing that I could identify.

Kensey: I’ll take anything that tastes better than this.

Me: I’m on it. Don’t eat that.

Kensey: It tastes like regret.

Me: Step away from the lettuce.

I already knew where I was going. I got her the meatball sub. I got myself the same thing. I added two bags of kettle chips and a couple of the small cannoli from the glass case by the register.

I came up the stairs. She was sitting at her desk with the salad sitting on the corner.

“What did you get?” she asked.

“Meatball sub.” I set the bag on the edge of her desk and started pulling things out.

“You went to Caruso’s?”

“I did. Come on,” I said, nodding toward my office. “I’m not eating at my desk. Too messy.”