Part 4:
Somewhere in there, at some table he’d never see, a woman named Vivien had waited for him. had checked her watch, had ordered a drink, had eventually given up and left. And he’d been on the side of the road fixing a stranger’s car, getting soaked to the bone for someone who didn’t even say thank you properly. His phone rang. Sarah, he answered.
I know what happened. I stopped to help someone. Car broke down. I fixed it and then I was late and he dragged a hand through his wet hair. It doesn’t matter. She left. Ethan. Sarah’s voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. You can’t keep doing this. Doing what? Putting everyone else first.
You stopped for a stranger instead of showing up for yourself. She was stranded, Sarah. What was I supposed to do? Show up on time. Just once. Show up for something that’s about you, not about fixing someone else’s problem. The words hit harder than they should have. Ethan closed his eyes. listening to the rain hammer the roof.
I’m tired, he said finally. I know. I don’t know how to do this. The dating thing, the trying thing. I know. A pause. But Sophie needs to see you try. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. He thought about his daughter asleep at Sarah’s house right now, wearing her favorite dinosaur pajamas and probably clutching the stuffed elephant she’d had since she was three.
Sophie, who asked him every morning if he was happy like an eight-year-old should have to monitor her father’s emotional state. I’ll try, he said. Good. Now, go home, take a hot shower, and tomorrow you’re going to text Viven and apologize. I don’t have her number. I’ll send it to you. Text her. Explain what happened. Maybe she’ll give you another shot.
Sarah, uh, text her, Ethan. She hung up. Ethan sat in the dark, rain turning the world outside into a blur, and wondered how his life had become this small, this careful, this afraid. His phone buzzed. A number he didn’t recognize in a message from Sarah. This is Viven. Be brave.
He stared at the screen for a long time. Then he started typing, “This is Ethan. I’m so sorry about tonight.” I stopped to help someone whose car broke down, and by the time I got to the restaurant, you’d already left. I know that sounds like an excuse, but it’s the truth. If you’re willing to give me another chance, I promise I’ll show up on time.
I understand if you’re not interested. You deserve better than someone who shows up late and covered in mud. He read it three times, deleted it twice, then finally hit send before he could overthink it anymore. The message showed as delivered, then a moment later, read. He waited. Rain drumed on the roof. His phone stayed silent. Finally, after what felt like an hour, but was probably only 5 minutes, three dots appeared. Vivien was typing.
The dots disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared. Then, what kind of car? Ethan blinked at the screen. What? The car that broke down. What kind was it? He hesitated, then typed, vintage Jaguar Eype, British racing green. Beautiful car. Loose fuel pump relay. The response was immediate. That was my car. For a second, Ethan just stared at the words, brain refusing to process them.
Then, “You’re Viven and you’re the mechanic who fixed my Jaguar. You were the blind date and you were mine.” Ethan started laughing. Couldn’t help it. the absurdity of it. Fixing her car, getting soaked to the bone, rushing to a restaurant where she’d already left, only to discover that the woman he’d helped and the woman he was supposed to meet were the same person.
His phone buzzed again. Are you laughing at me? No. At the universe. This is insane. Agreed. A pause. Then the restaurant wouldn’t let you in, would they? How did you know? because I saw you through the window, walking in, soaking wet, leaving puddles everywhere. And I was sitting at a table by myself, checking my phone, completely unaware that you were the person I’d been waiting for.
Ethan’s chest tightened. You were there? I’d already paid for my drink and left through the back entrance. I didn’t know. If I’d known, we’re both idiots. Completely. Another pause. Longer this time. Then there’s a diner on Madison. It’s open until midnight if you want to try this again. Ethan looked at the clock on his dashboard. 10:47 p.m.
His jeans were still soaked. His shirt was beyond saving. And he probably smelled like wet dog and motor oil. He typed, “I’ll be there in 10 minutes. I’ll order coffee.” He started the engine, and this time when the check engine light came on, he just laughed. The diner was called Rosies, and it looked exactly like every other late night Seattle diner.
Vinyl booths patched with duct tape, fluorescent lights that hum too loud, a jukebox in the corner that probably hadn’t worked since 1987. The smell of coffee and grease hung in the air like a permanent fixture. Ethan spotted Viven immediately. She was sitting in a corner booth, still wearing the expensive coat, but looking somehow different than she had on the roadside, less guarded maybe, or just exhausted.
