He fell in beside me, draping an arm over my shoulder. I sighed with pleasure and awkwardly attempted small talk, saying, “I wonder if it will snow.”
To a meteorologist.
Instead of giving me the actual forecast, he said, “You still haven’t told me about the book you’re writing.”
That was a record scratch. I hadn’t yet found the courage to talk about this with anyone but Chelsea. “There isn’t much to say.”
We reached Ridge Street and waited at the crosswalk. Evan slid his hand into mine, turning to face me. “Tell me what there is to say.”
I took a deep breath, let it out, trying to figure out how to explain it. “It starts out when a woman is running late to work on a rainy day, so she takes the bus instead of walking.”
The light changed, and he started across, hand still firmly in mine. “Oh, it’s a weather story. I’m listening.”
“She strikes up a conversation with a stranger, and there’s an instant spark between them, but at her stop, she says goodbye. A beat later, the man chases after, but she’s gone into the mist.”
“A couple of weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed such a quick connection possible, you know, except in novels.” He glanced at me, his green eyes reminding me of how I’d felt when I’d first seen him that night, how I’d frozen up because he’d looked unapproachably beautiful.
“To be honest, when I wrote it, I had no idea it could actually happen. I just wanted a strong opening.”
“Do they have a series of near meets? I assume they end up together.”
“They do. But I’ve only finished the first draft.”
“I’m impressed. I wish I could write.”
“You say that as if you don’t walk around just knowing things like calculus and probably physics.”
“I mean,” he glanced up at the darkening sky. “Meteorology is nothing but calculus and physics.” He frowned. “And computers. Computers will replace us all one day.”
“Me, too, sadly. AI is going to eat our jobs. And then the humans, probably.”
We arrived at Kyan’s with the party already in full swing. He directed us to the kitchen and introduced a couple of guys leaning on the counter. Evan clasped hands with one of them, saying, “Hey, what’s going on?”
While they caught up, I went in search of a wineglass and a corkscrew, which I found at a wet bar in the living room. Over on the sofa, the writer guy Aidan was deep in conversation with a brunette decked out in Patagonia.
Back in the kitchen, Evan strangled the neck of a beer bottle. “I didn’t expect so many people to be here.”
Kyan nodded. “It’s become a tradition. You missed our flag football game earlier over in Tonsler Park.”
“Yeah. I was moving into my place.”
“Hey, Spurlock,” another guy said, reaching a hand out for the bro shake. “I saw you on TV. I told my wife I went to school with you. She didn’t believe me!”
Evan’s forehead creased, and I could see him working it out. Maybe if I hadn’t fooled him, he wouldn’t be second-guessing himself with every ghost from his past.
I’d gone to one of my high school reunions, and I could recall how uncanny it was to see people jumped ten years in age, like they’d applied a filter. I’d had to check the name tags on more people than I cared to admit, mentally peeling back a decade to picture them as they were. I was constantly asking my actual friends, “Who was that?”
The guy let him off the hook. “It’s Dex. Dex Philips.”
Evan’s eyes widened. “Weren’t we in French class together?”
“Yeah. That’s right. You were always in the honors classes, so we didn’t share the same schedule.”
Evan scoffed. “You were way better at French than me, I recall.”
It was weird observing Evan as an outsider. I could so easily spot all those subtle signs of social awkwardness he tried to hide. He stood erect, hands tight around his bottle, and if he wasn’t glancing over at me, his eyes drifted to the floor, to his beer, to the ceiling.
It drove home how badly I’d tricked him, how I’d made him drop his guard without realizing I was just a Trojan horse. If anyone here messed with him like that, knowing how vulnerable he was right now, I’d probably shank them.
