“It is. Which is why I don’t really date. It’s easier to just... not.”
“But you’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“Why?”
She waits for a moment, staring into her coffee like it might have answers.
“Because you asked. And because...” she trails off, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Because something about you makes me want to say yes even though my brain is screaming that it’s a terrible idea.”
The honesty in that statement is bleak. She’s sitting here basically telling me that I’m a risk she probably shouldn’t take, and instead of being insulted, I’m oddly flattered.
“Your brain might be right,” I say. “I’m not exactly known for my commitment to anything other than hockey.”
“I know.”
“I don’t do relationships. I do dinner and good times and mutual satisfaction, and then everyone moves on with their lives.”
“I know that too.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because maybe I’m tired of always making the safe choice. Maybe I want to see what happens if I don’t overthink something for once.”
Her phone buzzes against the table, interrupting whatever I might have said in response. She glances at it, and I watch her entire demeanor shift.
“Shit,” she mutters, reading whatever message just came through.
“Everything okay?”
“No. But it will be.” She types a quick response, then puts the phone face down. “Sorry. Crisis management comes with the territory.”
“Kid crisis or work crisis?”
“Ex-husband crisis. Which is usually both.” She checks the time. “I should probably start thinking about heading out. Kids get out of school in an hour.”
“Right. Of course.”
We gather our things in a silence that feels different from the comfortable conversation we’ve been having. There’s tension now, the real world intruding on whatever bubble we’ve been in for the last two hours.
“Thank you,” she says as we walk toward the door. “For coffee. For conversation that didn’t involve scheduling or logistics.”
“Thank you for taking the risk.”
Outside, the Seattle afternoon is crisp and sunny, the kind of day that makes you remember why people choose to live here despite the rain.
“Can I see you again?” I ask as we reach her car. “Soon?”
She hesitates, and I can practically see her mental calendar spinning, calculating complications and potential conflicts.
“I’d like that. But I should warn you, my availability is...”
“Complicated. I know.”
“Saturday night might work if Evan actually sticks to the custody schedule. If you don’t mind meeting somewhere instead of the whole pickup thing. I’m still figuring out boundaries.”
“Wherever you want. Dinner this time?”
