“We could go back.”
She laughs too, and the musical peal rings in my ears. She looks up at me, all defiance gone. “Yes,” she says, voice steady. “I do want to do this again.”
I nod, pulse hammering. “Then I’ll call you. Or text, if you’d rather.”
“Call,” she says. “Texting is for children.”
A laugh bursts out of me, real and raw. “You got it.”
With that, Andie smiles one last time and walks out, down the sidewalk, hair haloed by the orange streetlights, and for a long minute I watch her go, feeling the shape of her name in my mouth.
I stand there, hand still on the door, and think: this is how it starts. Not with a bang, but with a slow, perfect burn.
I want to say I’ll take it slow. I want to believe I can outwit my own instincts.
But the truth is, I’m already plotting every possible future with her in it.
And I’ve never been more certain that I’ll win.
9
SHE'S A PERFECT FIT
Thomas
Aurum is new money pretending to be old, a rooftop splurge perched atop the glassiest tower on Hennepin, trading on the lie that anyone in Minneapolis ever needs to eat above the eighth floor. There’s a ritual to places like this: the elevator climb, the microsecond of vertigo when the doors part and the city grid appears as a magnificent vista, the silent concierge who intercepts you with the same voice they use to announce royalty or airline delays. I’m ten minutes early, by design.
The hostess leads me past the open kitchen, where tattooed men in black aprons slice hunks of steak with surgical precision, and then out onto the terrace—clear-walled, climate-controlled, arrayed with white-linen tables like an art installation. Candles. Tiny live-edge slabs of cedar for bread plates. A scent in the air—smoke, cold ozone, and some high-end cologne from the table over. The skyline has already started its blue-hour fade, every window in the city flickering awake, a hundred thousand illuminated rectangles mapping out other people’s business.
I take the anchor table by the glass railing, back to the wall. From here, I can see everything: the servers moving like clockwork, the way the city is caught in the reflection of the windows, and—more importantly—the entrance.
The waiter brings me a Balvenie 21, neat, and then disappears with an efficiency I appreciate. I turn the glass in my hand, watching the golden scotch coat the side, and allow myself the smallest shudder of anticipation. I could say it’s the drink, or the view, or the exhaustion after a day of shuffling crises around like a hustler at a shell game. But it’s not. It’s her.
I glance at my phone once. Then again. I don’t text. I don’t need to. If she ghosts, I’ll just drink here until midnight, then drop three grand on dessert wine for the house and retreat to my apartment to lick my wounds in silence. But I don’t think she will.
She’s exactly four minutes late, and somehow the anticipation makes it better. The elevator opens and Andie emerges—a vision who could be on a billboard in Times Square. Golden locks down, barely any makeup, a black wrap dress that could be H&M or could be Valentino, I don’t care. Sky-high heels and a blue raincoat, which she shucks the moment the hostess offers to take it. For a second, she stands at the entrance, scanning the room with a look I recognize: get the lay of the land, decide which wolves are worth worrying about.
She sees me, and her face does a quick micro-expression I can’t decipher—maybe nerves, maybe surprise at seeing me in my natural habitat. Then she walks over, legs long and unhurried, and I swear half the men in the place break their necks to follow her progress.
I rise as she approaches, because that’s what you do in a place like this, but also because I want her to see that I’ve noticed her, that the game is still on. Her smile is genuine and unsure at the same time.
“Hi,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Hi,” I echo. My voice is lower than I intend. I pull out her chair, and she hesitates, then sits, folding herself in with the kind of poise that you either have or you don’t. Obviously, Andie’s a natural.
There’s a beat of awkwardness as I retake my seat. She fiddles with the napkin, then glances out at the city, like she needs to check that it’s still there.
“I’ve never been here,” she says. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I like the view,” I say. “Makes everything below look manageable.”
She smiles sweetly at that, and I catch the glint of mischief that first hooked me. The waiter returns with a wine list and the sort of greeting that could double as an obituary notice. I hand the list to her. “Red or white?”
“White,” she says, not hesitating. “But I’ll let you pick.”
I do, and we order—her, a wild mushroom risotto; me, the rarest ribeye they have, because sometimes the stereotypes are earned. The waiter bows himself away, and we are left in the little bubble of candlelight and cold city noise leaking through the glass.
For a minute, we don’t say anything. I study her, and she studies me back, neither of us willing to cede the initiative.
