I looked up. The man standing there was maybe my age, with dark hair that needed a trim and glasses slightly fogged from the rain outside. He held a coffee in one hand and a worn paperback in the other.
“It’s all yours,” I said, moving my bag.
He sat down with an apologetic smile.
“Thanks. Saturdays are brutal here. I usually come earlier, but I slept in.”
I nodded and went back to my book. Or tried to. There was something about the careful way he set down his coffee and opened his book that felt considerate, like he was aware of the space we were sharing and wanted to do it well.
After a few minutes, he glanced at my book.
“Foundation series? You’re reading Asimov?”
“Trying to. It’s my third attempt. I keep getting distracted by the politics and losing track of who’s who.”
He laughed.
“That’s fair. The first one is dense. It gets better in the second book when you realize all the setup was worth it.”
We ended up talking for three hours.
His name was James. He was a software engineer at a company downtown, originally from Portland, in Seattle for two years and still discovering the city. We talked about books. He loved science fiction. I loved mysteries. We talked about Seattle rain and whether it was actually worse than people claimed or just more persistent. We talked about terrible jobs we had survived.
“Medical billing and restaurant serving,” I said when he asked about mine. “Both at the same time for about eight years.”
He winced.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
I didn’t elaborate. Didn’t mention Frank or why I had worked two jobs or any of it. And he didn’t push. He didn’t ask probing questions about my past or why I had moved to Seattle or any of the things people usually asked. He just accepted what I offered and moved on.
When he finally checked his phone and realized how long we had been talking, he looked genuinely surprised.
“Wow. I completely lost track of time.”
“Me too.”
He hesitated, then asked:
“Would you maybe want to get dinner sometime? There’s this Vietnamese place near my apartment that does incredible pho.”
My immediate instinct was to say no, to protect myself, to keep my new life simple and uncomplicated. Then I thought about Frank calling me dead weight. About eight years of making myself smaller so he could take up more space. About sitting alone in my apartment eating takeout while building a life that was safe but solitary.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”
James’s face lit up.
“Really? Great. Can I get your number?”
We exchanged numbers, and he left with a wave and that same apologetic smile. I sat alone at the table for another hour, my coffee long cold, wondering what exactly I had just agreed to.
Dating James felt like learning I had been speaking the wrong language my entire adult life. On our first dinner date, when the check came, he reached for it automatically. I reached for it at the same time, the reflex of eight years of paying for everything. Our hands collided over the leather folder.
“I’ve got this,” he said.
“We can split it.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“Is that what you want? Because I asked you out, so I figured I’d pay. But if you’d rather split, that’s fine too.”
The question itself threw me. Frank had never asked what I wanted. He had just assumed I would handle it, and I had.
“Split is good,” I said.
“Okay.”
He pulled out his card for half without any resentment or weird calculation about whose entrée cost more.
Our third date was a hike, one of Patricia’s easier trails that I had mentioned during dinner. James picked me up at nine, brought extra water and trail mix, and set a pace that matched mine instead of pulling ahead. Halfway up, I stepped wrong on loose rocks. My ankle rolled and I went down hard, catching myself on my hands. Pain shot up my leg sharp enough to make my eyes water.
“Liz, are you okay?”
James was beside me immediately, kneeling in the dirt trail. I tried to stand and winced.
“I think I twisted something.”
He helped me sit properly and carefully rolled up my pant leg to check the swelling. His hands were gentle, methodical.
“It’s not too bad. Can you put weight on it?”
I tried.
“Barely. Not really.”
Frank would have sighed. Would have said something about how this ruined the hike or how we should have stayed home. I braced myself for it.
Instead, James said, “Looks like we’re taking the scenic route back. Slow and steady.”
He took my backpack and added it to his.
“Lean on me. We’ll get you down.”
It took us twice as long to get back to the parking lot. James made terrible jokes the entire way.
“Why couldn’t the bicycle stand up by itself?”
“What do you call a bear with no teeth?”
Dad jokes so bad I couldn’t help laughing despite the pain.
At his apartment, he set me up on the couch with ice and pillows and put on an old movie neither of us had seen.
“Comfort and distraction,” he said. “Best treatment for minor injuries.”
Sitting there with my ankle elevated, watching a movie I would never remember the plot of, I realized something that made my chest tighten.
I felt safe.
Actually safe.
Not anxious about being a burden. Not worried about saying the wrong thing. Not calculating how much this inconvenience would cost me later.
James caught me watching him instead of the screen.
“You okay? Need more ice?”
