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The Waiting Game
Lucas
I waited exactly forty-seven minutes before texting her.
Testing… 1 2 3 testing.
Nothing. I stared at my phone screen, second-guessing whether I should have messaged so soon, and so casually, before I made myself put the phone down, waving over the waitress to bring me the check.
“Everything alright?” she asked as she approached the table, smiling. She made serious eye contact, the kind that made me feel as if she were looking into me instead of at me.
“Yes, uh…” I eyed her nametag. “Halie. I’ll take the check, please.”
“Sure thing,” she said, tearing my receipt from her book. But as she reached to set it in front of me, I extended my credit card and our arms awkwardly bumped.
“Oops!” Halie said, giggling. “I’ll be right back with this.” And she disappeared behind the bar.
When I looked back at my phone, I saw I had a new message from an unsaved number: Natalie.
Read ya, loud and clear :)
I smiled to myself.Natalie.I went to respond immediately, then, realizing I didn’t want to scare her away by coming off as overly eager, I put my phone down again, waiting until I had signed the check, left the restaurant, and settled myself into the driver’s seat of my car. I texted her,Name a time and date.
Right after sending, I panicked. Was “date” too presumptuous? Surely not, it was the standard terminology, but what was I so nervous about? Did I still have doubts about whether Natalie was interested in me? What if she had given me her number, not with the promise of a “time and date,” but out of sheer obligation? Or, worse yet, out of guilt, for having left me all those years ago?
But then I saw she was typing a response. I instinctively put my phone down before I could see what it said, determined to wait until I got home to read it.Dammit, Lucas, get a hold of yourself! You’ve never let yourself get so rattled up by a woman before!
The ride home was serene, the sun sparkling over the lake as I turned right onto Laguna Way, the water soon only intermittently visible between improbably large houses that bordered on castles. I listened to the local radio station, which seemed somehow to be playing the same songs it had when we’d visited as a family in my youth, decades ago, and tried not to think of Natalie. But, of course, she was all I thought of.
Finally I pulled up to the ivy-covered gate between Laguna Way and “Mendosa Manor,” as my father had affectionately dubbed it, and inserted the green key into the lock. As I turned it, the mechanisms clicked into place, and the gate parted to reveal my childhood vacation home, which was somehow more beautiful than I had ever seen it.
Or is it only more beautiful because it’s mine now?
I got back into my car and pulled forward into the driveway, before returning on foot to lock the gate. From the trunk of the car I grabbed my weekend bag; then, with the yellow key, I unlocked the front door.
It was just as glorious as I remembered it. Despite having been unoccupied for years, it appeared as if not a day had gone by, for all the surfaces and furnishings were spotless. Directly across from the front door, the back wall was all window, demanding a view of the lake that was so beautiful I had to sit down and catch my breath.
And then I remembered—Natalie. I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that she had sent two messages in response.
Tomorrow at 8, at the coffeehouse on the corner of Laguna Way and Avalon.
Does that work?
The coffeehouse had only been constructed within the last decade, and I’d be lying if I said it was a place that carried special significance; however, I had been on a couple of dates during my teenage years staying at the lake house, and most of them had taken place there.
So I replied, more confidently than before,It’s a date! See you then.
That night I couldn’t sleep, as I turned over hypothetical scenarios in my head, ranging from perfect to mediocre to downright catastrophic—in one particularly absurd scenario, her husband (who in this scenario was faceless but whose body resembled Mateo in his heavier years) appearing at the coffeehouse with a sword, demanding to duel me for Natalie’s hand.
But at last sleep overcame me, and as it was my weekend, I had no cause for setting an alarm, and so I slept heavily and dreamlessly into the afternoon.
I awoke in a state of confusion. Grabbing my phone, I saw it was 4:30p.m. In a panic, I jumped out of the bed. I wasn’t late, per se, but wanted time to mentally prepare myself, to plan what it was I wanted to say. I took a shower, got dressed, changed, changed again, made myself a cup of coffee—we were meeting for coffee, sure, but I wanted to be alert from the moment I got there—and scrambled out the door by 7:30p.m. My city-life sensibilities had driven me to leave a half-hour before the commitment; however, I soon remembered I lived less than five minutes from our meeting spot. I could have walked, and still I’d have made it there early. But I was afraid I’d sweat if I walked, and so I took my position behind the wheel, turned on that nostalgic radio channel, and coasted down Laguna Way, pulling into the coffeehouse parking lot shortly thereafter. I checked the time: 7:36 p.m.
I waited in my car restlessly, until five minutes to eight, at which point I looked at myself in the mirror, flashed myself a smile, whispered a quick, “You got this, Lucas!” and emerged from the car.
“Hello. I’m looking for my…friend, Natalie—have you seen her?” I asked the barista as I entered.
The barista glared at me. “Look around,” he said, too matter-of-factly to come off as rude. I turned; there was nobody there. It was only me and him.
