The first surprise was that he’d ordered his own drink and paid for it himself. The second was that he’d chosen a place where students studied, argued, and spilled coffee. Where no one was impressed by anyone else.
I clicked on the recorder and launched into the basics. Racing schedule. Coursework. How he balanced time on the track with Wharton’s expectations. Jonathan answered without rushing, precise when he needed to be, thoughtful when the question deserved it.
For a brief moment, we bonded over our mutual love of cars. “My dad runs his own garage,” I said. “He works on a lot of cars for weekend racers. I grew up readingApex Racing.”
“Me, too!” He smiled. “Whenever I visited my grandfather, he always had the new edition for me.” He sat back. “Most people think racing is about aggression,” he said. “It’s not. It’s about restraint. Knowing when not to push.”
That went straight into my notes. The interview ran long, which I took as a good sign. At times it felt less like an assignment and more like something unfolding between us. An exchange that kept my attention in a way I didn’t quite want to name yet.
When I turned off the recorder, I felt that familiar, satisfying click in my chest, the sense that I had what I needed.
“Let me know if you need clarification on anything,” Jonathan said, standing and slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “Or if you want to see my car sometime.”
“I might,” I said, already thinking about structure and where to spotlight his quotes. “Thanks for your time.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “You ask better questions than most people who write about me.”
That should have been a warning. I didn’t take it as one.
Once the piece ran, there was no professional reason to think about Jonathan Hirsch again. But for the next few days, I found myself scanning faces as I crossed campus, half expecting to see Jonathan and pick up the conversation where we’d left it.
Even so, I was surprised to see him at the Rainbow Alliance meeting that Sunday.
I didn’t go every month, and when I did I rarely stayed long enough to memorize who belonged to which circle. I was usually too busy with classwork, my part-time job at the campus bookstore, and my work on theDP.
But I’d promised my friend Maya I’d be there that Sunday. She was presenting her research on queer representation in student government, and she’d been nervous about it all week. I dragged myself to Houston Hall, slipping into the back ofthe meeting room just as people were settling into the circle of chairs.
And there, sitting three seats to my left, was Jonathan Hirsch.
He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Our eyes met across the circle, and he gave me a small, uncertain smile. I managed a nod in return, my heart doing something complicated against my ribs.
After the meeting ended, people lingered, clustering in small groups. I was talking to Maya about her research when Jonathan appeared at my elbow.
“Could I buy you coffee?” he asked quietly. “To thank you for that excellent profile. I even sent it to my dad and he was impressed.”
Maya raised an eyebrow at me, clearly intrigued, but she was gracious enough to excuse herself. “Think about what I said about the spring activism conference,” she called over her shoulder.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I know,” Jonathan replied. “I’d like to. If you’re willing.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was thanking me, asking me out, or doing something more careful than either, and that uncertainty felt deliberate. “Sure,” I said.
I suggested the 24-hour diner on Walnut Street, where booths came with cracked vinyl seats and unlimited refills. The fluorescent lights were unflattering, the coffee was industrial-strength, and somehow it felt more real than any of the upscale places near campus.
“So,” he said, glancing around. “This feels comfortable.”
“High praise,” I said. “I bring all my dates to places with laminated menus.”
I heard the worddatesas I said it and didn’t take it back.
“Good,” he said. “I hate places that try too hard.”
We ordered coffee and sat with it between us, steam rising in the narrow space like something that needed acknowledging.
“You know a lot about me,” he said. “And I know very little about you. What do you do when you’re not reporting for the DP?”
It was an ordinary question, but the way he asked it made it sound like he expected the answer to matter.
