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He lifts his phone to his ear, his dark brows knit. I don’t think he heard me, nor is he aware that I’m walking away.
As he said earlier, it is what it is.
It’s an expression I’ve always found banal yet somehow applicable to every situation in existence. Growing up, my father always taught us that we can’t always change a situation, but we can always change our attitude toward that situation. Sometimes the best attitude a person can have is simply acceptance.
Chuckling to myself as I leave, I accept that this was the strangest date I’ve ever had in my life.
I’m four blocks into my journey when I bump into Roman at a crosswalk. Had I noticed him any sooner, I’d have kept my eyes down, only now it’s too late. We’re staring at each other, separated by four people and a restless standard poodle with a Louis Vuitton collar.
“Hi . . . ,” I say, though it comes out as more of a question than a greeting.
“My driver had a family emergency,” he says with a slight air of annoyance.
“You didn’t want to Uber or . . . ?” I ask. There’s always the subway. Or a yellow cab. Buses, of course. He has options. Trekking home in those expensive-looking leather loafers seems like it should be the last of them.
A brunette woman between us looks at him, then me, then rolls her eyes, as if our conversation inconveniences her. She pops a white earbud into her ear and steps aside, leaving a gap where she once stood.
“You headed uptown?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“Midtown,” I say. The crosswalk light changes, indicating it’s safe to walk. “You?”
“Upper East Side,” he says.
Somehow in the process of making our way across the street, we wind up behind the four people and the poodle, the two of us walking side by side.
A block later and we’re still walking . . . together.
It’s strange, even stranger than the date we just ended, but I’m not going to be rude and suddenly veer off onto some side street only to risk bumping into him again.
My goal tonight was to be boring, not weird.
Huge difference.
Soon, though, that one block becomes two, which then becomes three, then four, and before I know it, we’re approaching my street, and we still haven’t breathed a single additional word to one another.
The second my building comes into view, I nonchalantly dig my keys out of my purse, jangling them as if to wordlessly let him know I’ve reached my destination. I’d thank him for walking me home, but I don’t know if that’s what he did? We simply happened to be going in the same direction on the same route at the same time.
“This is your place?” He breaks the silence.
I point toward the front door of my building. “This is me.”
He stops in his tracks. His Italian shoes look out of place on this humble stretch of Midtown street.
“This building,” he says, scratching at his temple. He points at the brown structure with matching front steps and the black iron railings and a sign that says THE MAYBERRY—ESTABLISHED 1912. “This one right here?”
My gaze narrows as I attempt to wrap my head around what he’s getting at. Does he want me to invite him up for a nightcap? Or god forbid, a one-night stand? I don’t care how disarmingly attractive this man is, I could never let him into my home or my pants.
He stands frozen beside me, contemplative, lost in thought, staring at the steps like he’s seen a ghost. Snapping out of it, his gaze lowers. He runs his hands through his dark hair before blowing a hard breath between his full lips.
“I’m, um, going to head up now . . .” I jingle my keys once again. He looks straight at them as he rakes his hand along his jaw. “Have a good rest of your night.”
His eyes drift toward my hand before settling on a cracked section of sidewalk.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
He’s visibly upset about something.
Meanwhile, I’ve never been more confused about anything in my entire life.
“Everything okay?” I can’t, in good conscience, leave him like this.
Is he diabetic? Is he having an episode?
His lips press together as our eyes meet. The streetlight above paints harsh shadows on his chiseled face, so I’m unable to accurately gauge his expression.
“Where did you get that key chain?” he asks.
I lift my keys, isolating the canary-yellow enameled H with the red leather lover’s knot—a limited edition Halcyon key chain I happened to get during my tenure at the very gallery he got me fired from.
Years ago, we were attempting to broker a deal with an up-and-coming artist who went by the pseudonym Halcyon. Much like Banksy, Halcyon preferred to be faceless and nameless. An enigma known only for what they created and not what (or who) they were. Only Halcyon hasn’t reached near the notoriety that Banksy has over the years. The average person wouldn’t have the faintest clue who Halcyon is.
