I rush downstairs and hail a taxi. We get to the restaurant in twelve minutes, which is a miracle in Manhattan traffic. I walk in and scan the room. There’s a guy sitting alone at a table near the window, looking at his phone, mid-thirties, button-down shirt, looks normal enough, which is always how the weird ones look. I text Collette.
Fish: I’m here. Which one is he?
Collette: Window table. Beige shirt. Receding hairline. Looks like an accountant who murders people on weekends.
I nearly choke trying not to laugh. I compose myself and walk over to the table.
“Hey man, sorry to interrupt,” I say, flashing my most charming smile. “I’m a friend of Collette’s. Family emergency, I need to grab her.”
The guy looks up at me, and his eyes widen because I’m six-foot-two and in a hoodie that makes my arms look massive, and also because he probably recognizes me, which helps. “Oh. Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine. Thanks for understanding.” I clap him on the shoulder with enough force to communicate,‘Don’t call her again’without actually saying it.
Collette emerges from the bathroom with her jacket already on, bag over her shoulder, moving fast. “I’m so sorry,” she says to knife guy as she passes. “Family thing. You understand.” Shedoesn’t slow down. I follow her out the door, and we walk half a block in silence before she stops and leans against a wall.“A knife collection, Fish. He showed me close-up photos of hunting knives while I was eating pasta.”
“Were they at least nice knives?” I joke.
“I hate you.” But she’s laughing, that laugh where her whole face opens up and her shoulders shake, and she looks at me like I’m the most ridiculous person she’s ever met.
“Did you at least finish your pasta?” She shakes her head. “Come on,” I say, holding out my hand for her. She entwines her fingers with mine. “I know a place.”
“Where are we going?” she asks, falling into step beside me, but not letting go of my hand.
“You mentioned a couple of weeks ago that you wanted to try that Thai place in Chelsea, the one Harper told you about.”
She stops walking. “You remembered that?”
“Yeah.” I shrug like it’s nothing when it’s everything.
She stares at me for a second, and then beams. “I’m so excited.”
The restaurant is small, warm, and smells incredible, and the second we walk in, Collette’s eyes light up the way they do when she finds a place she’s going to love. We get a corner table, and she orders half the menu because she can’t decide. I let her because watching her get excited about food is one of my favorite things about her, and that thought should concern me, but it doesn’t.
We eat and talk, and she tells me about the three dates she’s been on this month, each worse than the last. The first guy spent forty minutes talking about his podcast. The second asked her to split the bill and then tried to kiss her in the parking lot, and now knife guy.
“Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something,” I say, stealing a spring roll off her plate.
“That New York men are trash?”
“That you’re looking in the wrong places,” I say casually, but my heart is slamming against my ribs because I know what I mean even if she doesn’t.
She looks at me across the table, chopsticks paused midair, and for a second, something flickers behind those hazel eyes. Then she blinks and it’s gone. “You’re probably right. Maybe I should try women.” She grins.
“That’s not what I meant.” I smirk. “It would be hot, but no.”
“I know what you meant,” she says quietly, almost to herself, and then changes the subject to the new content series she’s pitching to Renee, and I let her because some doors aren’t mine to open.
I pay the bill before she can argue, but she argues anyway. I tell her it’s a rescue fee. She tells me to go fuck myself. I walk her home because that’s what I do now, and when we get to her building, she turns and looks at me in the lobby light and says, “You know you’re ruining other men for me, right?”
“Good.” It comes out before I can filter it.
She shakes her head, smiling, and disappears into the elevator.
I stand in the lobby for a second too long and then walk home in the cold, wondering how much longer I can do this before something breaks.
The youth hockeyclinic is my favorite day of the season. Kids everywhere in oversized helmets and jerseys that hang past their knees, taking shots with foam pucks that barely make it to the net. The arena is loud with the particular chaos that only small children can create, squealing and laughing, and the constantscraping of tiny skates on ice. I spend the whole morning crouched down, teaching kids how to fall without crying. There’s a kid, maybe five, who’s been face-planting every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes and won’t quit. His helmet is too big and keeps sliding over his eyes, and every time he goes down, he pops back up with this huge grin on his face like eating ice is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I skate over and crouch down next to him.
“Hey, buddy, want me to show you a trick?”