His words warmed me a little. I smiled, feeling almost . . . seen.
“I work as an admin at Coastal Community Mental Health,” I said.
“You must be good with numbers then.” He nudged the pastry bag toward me.
I didn’t really feel like eating, but I took a cookie to be polite.
“Do you still have family around here?” he asked.
A small shake of my head preceded my answer. “No. It’s just me.”
“Oh—God, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice dropping into that tone people use when they think you’ve lost someone. “I lost my parents as a kid. I know what it’s like to lose people.”
My throat tightened. I chewed and swallowed quickly. “Oh, no, sorry for the confusion. My parents are still alive. We just don’t...”
Heat bloomed across my face. What was I supposed to say next? Tell him about my alcoholic father? My enabling mother? Or worse, my uncle? For a moment, I felt like it was written all over me in neon: white trash. No matter that I had a BA in accounting.
“We just don’t talk,” I finished softly, hoping he wouldn’t ask more. “But I’m really sorry about your parents. In some ways, it feels like mine are dead too.”
Our eyes met. His expression was unreadable but not cold. His gaze briefly dropped to my neck again.
“Yeah,” he said. “Having no family is one of the hardest things anyone can go through.”
We sat in silence for a while, watching the runners and slowly sipping our drinks. The cookie sat half-eaten in my hand.
Eventually, he checked his watch—gold, sleek, and probably worth more than my car.
“Shoot. I have to go,” he said.
Of course he did. I stood up with him.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said.
“Same here.”
He didn’t leave. Not immediately.
“We didn’t get to talk about the mental health awareness events,” he said. “Could we meet up again?” He pulled out his phone and held it toward me, screen open to a blank contact.
I stared at it like it wasn’t real.
“I’d love to hear more about ways my company can give back to the community,” he said.
“S-sure,” I said, finally, and typed in my number.
His smile lit up his whole face. “Great. I’ll text you.”
Then he turned and walked away, every movement smooth and confident. Before disappearing into the crowd, he glanced back over his shoulder and waved.
My hand lifted in a quick wave as the first runners reached the finish line to a swell of cheers.
Deep down, I already knew: Daniel Winthrop wouldn’t call.
Whatever that was, whatever had just happened, meant nothing and would lead nowhere.
Men like him didn’t end up with women like me. Not for casual encounters and not for friendly meetings to talk about charity events.
Maybe I’d stand a chance in a world where different qualities mattered more than looks or money.
