“You’ll be the first to know. Have a good night.”
The door closes with athudthat oddly mimics the aching sound of my heart. Without Moyo’s presence, the cold permeates deeper than expected. I really should’ve worn a proper jacket.
Perusing her thoughtful responses, I know exactly who to pair her with for her second date. As much as it pains me to do so, giving Moyo the best chance at a long-lasting, present, meaningful lover is more important than my feelings.
I should’ve rejected Dad’s inheritance. I shouldn’t have shown up to the transfer ceremony. But I did. Out of cowardice, resignation, and oddly, the childish desire to gain his approval. Instead, the man barely spoke to me afterwards and was on the next flight out.
I gave up everything. I am giving up something I genuinely want because there’s no way to be just Niyi, not Saturn. Like an anointed priest, I am chained to my vows. But unlike the clergy, I didn’t choose this life. I don’t want this life. I don’t like this life.
There must be a way. It’s too late for a chance with Moyo, since her next date will likely be her soulmate. But there must be a way for myself.
Gods can live indefinitely as long as the commitment to serve is renewed. But I don’t need eternity to know I am not committed to this role.
I want one life. My life.
And once I say goodbye to Moyo and get the algorithm in place, I’ll figure out a way. Like Moyo reminded me, I am Saturn and of the New Moon—if change is possible, it’s my job to find it.
Date #2
I STEP INTO THE QUAINT, RETRO DINER WITH CHECKEREDlinoleum floors and red booths and am transported to the ’50s. In the corner sits a jukebox that ties the aesthetic together, but music plays from the overhead speakers.
A doorbell chime announces my presence, and a tall, handsome figure turns to the sound.
“Moyo, right?”
“Maxwell?” I confirm.
“In the flesh.” He beams, and I linger on his features. Just like at theCupid’s Bowmixer, his chiseled jaw, light brown skin, perfect teeth, and inviting warm, brown eyes draw out my smile. The monochromatic black pants and turtleneck he’s wearing make his skin pop. He’s as handsome as I remember.
Guess that listening to Niyi and my girls worked, ’cause this pairing might be it.
I remember Niyi standing in my driveway as he waited for me to open the door. The contentment on his face as he savored the silence with eyes fixed on me. Like he had nothing better to do with his time. My smile threatens to widen, but I temper it, deciding to focus more on the present.
My date. Someone who fits into the plan.
“Shall we?” Maxwell extends a hand.
I take it, pleased by his gentlemanly manners.
Unlike my abysmal first date, Maxwell planned the entire night. Dinner and an old movie—perfection.
He gestures for me to enter the booth ahead of him, and a sharp whiff of cedar hits me. He not only looks good, but he smells great.
An older, white lady in blue wearing a white apron approaches our booth.
“Evenin’. I’m Jan, and I’ll be taking care of y’all today,” she says with a prominent Texan drawl. She provides a run-through of the complicated menu, outlining tonight’s specials before giving us a few minutes to think.
The name Chelle’s Shakes n Sides is written in the same ’50s script font as the brightly colored sign on the door. The laminated mini booklet features an extensive list of alcoholic and alcohol-free milkshakes, burgers, fries, sandwiches, steaks, all quintessentially American.
“Ever been here before?” I ask, hoping to find a topic to settle my uneasy stomach.
Maxwell lowers the menu to give me his full attention.Another Brownie point.
“Never. Been planning to for a while but with this being out of the city and the theater only playing once a month, my schedule hasn’t made it easy.”
“And things aligned this weekend?”
“When you’re involved, the stars make a way,” he says, flirting unabashedly.
