I nod and watch him navigate through the sparse crowd toward the newly upholstered booths. The anxiety from the gym, the ghost of Marcus Thorne in my old office, still clings to me,but the simple mission—get beer—is a welcome anchor. I make my way to the bar, scanning the chalkboard of draft options. There are a dozen choices, a surprising variety for Pine Island. I’m trying to decide between a porter and an ale when a voice next to me says, “Just a glass of the house white, please.”
I know that voice. I turn, and my brain short-circuits. It’s Maya. She’s standing right there, rummaging through her purse, her back mostly to me. She’s wearing the same sundress from the night we met, the one I told her she probably bought in an Italian market. Her silky brown hair is tucked behind one ear, revealing the silver seashell earring I’d also invented a story about.
My heart gives a solid, inconvenient thump against my ribs. Of all the people, in the only other bar in this tiny town. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
She turns from the bar, a glass of wine now in hand, and her eyes land on me. They widen for a fraction of a second. It’s not a look of horror, or even annoyance. It’s just pure, unadulterated surprise. And maybe, if I’m not just projecting my own hopes, she doesn’t look entirely unhappy to see me. That’s all the encouragement I need.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near ‘guy who just saw a ghost.’
“Zachary,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips. “The astronaut.”
“Maya,” I chuckle. “The world traveler.”
“Something like that,” she says, her gaze dropping to her wine glass. There’s a beat of awkward silence, the space between us charged with the memory of that night on the beach. I have to say something, do something, before she just walks away and I’m left standing here with my rapidly dissolving courage.
“Dave and I just grabbed a booth,” I say, gesturing vaguely behind me. “We were just grabbing a beer to celebrate… surviving another day of pre-planning. You should join us.”
I watch her hesitate, weighing the offer. I’m fully expecting a polite refusal, a plausible excuse. But then she surprises me. “Okay,” she says with a small nod. “Sure.”
Relief washes over me. As I order two IPAs, she speaks again, her voice softer. “Listen, about yesterday,” she starts, and I turn back to her. “In the trailer. I’m sorry if I came on a little strong.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“No, I do,” she insists. “I’m just… I’m really passionate about teaching, and I don’t always handle sudden changes well. Especially when it comes to my classroom. It’s my space, you know?” She takes a sip of her wine. “I had this whole plan for a full wall mural based on local folklore, and another for a hanging sculpture garden made from recycled materials. The wall space was key.”
As she talks, I see the passionate teacher she is, one who thinks in colors and concepts. Whose passion makes my own feel so new and fragile.
“That sounds amazing,” I say, and I mean it. I grab the beers, and we walk over to the booth where Dave is scrolling through his phone. He looks up and smiles as we approach.
“Look who I found,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him. Maya sits next to me, leaving a respectable but not unfriendly distance between us. They smile and exchange pleasantries.
“Maya was just telling me about some of the plans she had for her classroom,” I say to Dave, before turning back to her. “Maybe we can still make some of them happen. The trailer has that high ceiling, right? The hanging garden could definitely still work.”
Maya’s eyes light up just a little. “You think? I was worried about the weight.”
“We could use lighter materials. And I’m pretty sure I saw some support beams we could anchor to,” I offer, the problem-solving part of my brain—the part that used to build wireframes and user flows—kicking into gear.
Dave listens for a while, chiming in with a few good-natured comments, but I can tell he sees what’s happening. He seems like a good guy, and he’s not blind. He drains the last few drops of his IPA and slides out of the booth.
“Well, folks, this has been great, but I promised my wife I’d be home to help with dinner,” he says, giving me a look that’s equal parts knowing and amused. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
I barely register his departure, my attention fully captured by the conversation with Maya. Seeming to forget her earlier hesitation, Maya has pulled a bullet journal and a little case of colored pens from her bag.
“Okay,” she says, clicking a green pen. “So, ‘Hanging Sculpture Garden.’ What kind of anchors are we talking about?”
We spend the next hour lost in our plans. We talk about mobiles that demonstrate principles of physics, murals that incorporate biological diagrams, projects that bleed the line between art and science. She’s brilliant, her mind racing with creative energy. And I realize, to my surprise, that I’m buzzing with it too. She writes everything down in her neat, looping script, creating color-coded lists and sketching little diagrams in the margins. I find myself utterly captivated by the way she organizes chaos into beauty. It’s adorable. It’s also, unexpectedly, sexy.
My gaze drifts from the vibrant page to her hand, then up her arm to her face. She’s leaning forward, chewing on her lower lip in concentration, and a lock of her brown hair falls across her cheek. She pushes it back, and the movement exposes thelong, pale line of her neck. And suddenly, I’m far less interested in the logistics of hanging paper-mâché planets from the ceiling. All I can think about is her, and that kiss on the beach, and the fervent, undeniable desire for a repeat performance.
She finishes writing a note, looks up, and her eyes lock with mine. And for a single, breathtaking second, I see it. I swear I see it. A flash of heat in her hazel eyes, a flicker of the same raw attraction that’s currently making a mess of my insides. My mouth goes dry. I’m about to say something—I don’t know what, something stupid, probably—but the moment shatters.
Her expression closes off. The light in her eyes is gone, replaced by a guarded look. She glances at her watch as if it just bit her.
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” she says, her voice suddenly brittle. She swallows the last of her wine in one gulp and starts shoving her journal and pens back into her bag with frantic energy. “I have to go. I’m late for a… a charity knit-a-thon.”
A charity knit-a-thon. It’s the flimsiest, most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever heard, and she knows it. She slides out of the booth, avoiding my eyes.
“But I’ll see you tomorrow,” she adds quickly. “To decorate. This was… this was really helpful. Thanks.”
