I don’t.
Outside, the air is cold enough that my lungs seize up, but it wakes me. I walk the first block to the light rail because it feels like punishment, then give up and call a car anyway.
The driver is chatty, wants to know if I’m going to a party or a date. I say, “Just meeting a friend.” He laughs, says, “Hope she’s hot.” I smile like it’s funny, but it feels like biting on tinfoil.
At Woodbury, the line is out the door, so I wedge myself in the corner by the bus stop and try not to look like I’m waiting for a rescue chopper.
I check my phone again. No new notifications.
I type out, “Hope you have a good night,” to Darius. I stare at it, then delete the whole thing, letter by letter, like it was never there.
The phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Vincent: “Running five late. Get a table if you can.” I respond, “Cool. I’ll try.” Then I sit on the curb, knees bouncing, and try to convince myself that this is what normal people do. This is what moving on looks like.
I’m not convinced. But I’ll fake it as long as I have to.
When Vincent finally shows up, he’s even more put-together than at the rink.
Slim fit shirt, the kind of watch you can’t buy unless you’ve maxed out your student loans and then some, hair styled so perfectly it looks like it has its own publicist.
I stand, brush invisible dirt off my jeans, and try to remember what confidence feels like.
He spots me right away, waves, and cuts through the crowd with zero hesitation. His handshake is firm, businesslike, and the first thing he says is, “Hope you’re a whiskey guy. They have the best in the city.”
I lie and say I am. We fight through the crowd and get a table in the back, right under the sign that says, “NO BAD VIBES,” which is a cosmic joke if there ever was one.
Vincent orders for both of us, doesn’t even ask what I want.
It’s a power move, and I’m kind of impressed, if only because it’s the polar opposite of every interaction I’ve ever had with Darius, who used to ask what I wanted and then order two, just in case.
I wonder if that’s what normal looks like. I wonder if I’ll ever know.
The first round is smooth, smoky, goes down like fire.
I cough, Vincent laughs, and the conversation is off to the races. He asks about the game, about the team, about “what it’s like to be the underdog who wins.” He listens, really listens,but it’s the kind of listening that feels transactional, like he’s mentally taping the whole thing for later.
He laughs at my jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny, but his eyes never leave mine for more than a second. It’s intense, but I like it. Or I tell myself I do.
Every so often, his hand lands on my arm, light but deliberate, a touch that says “I want you,” or at least “I want this story.” I pretend not to notice, but my skin catalogs every contact, adds it to the running total of reasons I should let myself want this.
We talk hockey, talk Seattle, talk family.
I mention my sister, how she’s the only one who ever understood what it meant to live with perpetual second place, and Vincent just nods, absorbing. He tells me about his own family, about the pressure, about the “relentless need to win.”
I recognize the hunger, even if his is sharper, less wounded.
By the third round, I’m not even pretending to check my phone. I don’t care if Darius is thinking about me.
I don’t care if he’s already moved on. I don’t care if I never see him again, because Vincent is here, right now, and he wants me. Or something that looks a lot like me.
At some point, Vincent says, “You want to get out of here?” and it’s not really a question.
I say yes. Because why not.
Because Darius told me to.
Because I need to believe that normal is possible.
Because I’m tired of being the ghost in someone else’s story.
