The Lies I Tell(10)

“Sure. I’ll set an alarm so I don’t forget.”

“Thanks.”

I disconnected the call and locked the car, my heart pounding. If this didn’t work, I’d be back at the internet café, sorting through a list of men old enough to be my father. I’d be back in the minivan, driving through dark neighborhoods looking for a safe place to park at night. I took a jittery breath and let it out slowly.

I entered the coffee shop and spotted him at a back table, a large mug in front of him, already knowing what was in it. Black coffee.

I felt a surge of power, as if I was the director of a play, calling the shots, controlling the pace. I was a stranger to him, and yet I knew what he liked and didn’t like. I knew what he wanted and what he cared about.

There was a small possibility he’d remember my face from the halls of Northside High. If he did, I planned to lean into it. Confess a crush. So embarrassing!

I ordered my own cup of black coffee and carried it toward him, plastering a hopeful expression on my face as I neared his table.

“Roger?” I said, and held my breath, waiting for a flash of recognition in his eyes.

But there was none. “Sorry, no,” he said with a kind smile. Up close, the golden hazel of his eyes was framed by thick eyelashes, a faint tan line of a wetsuit around his neck.

I sank into a seat at the table next to him. “That’s embarrassing. Blind date,” I explained.

He smiled. “Same.”

“It never gets any easier, does it?”

He offered a noncommittal shrug and I let it sit, sipping my coffee, biding my time.

After about twenty minutes, he began checking his phone more frequently, looking for a missed call or text. I mirrored him, glancing between the door and my own phone on the table in front of me. At one point, I offered him an awkward smile, which he returned. I grew tense, wondering if he’d leave before Cal’s call, and tried to think of a way to keep him there. I was about to turn toward him with a comment about the weather when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I said.

“Here’s the call I promised you. I’ve got to run, but fill me in tomorrow.”

Cal disconnected, but I kept talking. “Oh. I see.” I closed my eyes, as if I were fighting off a crushing disappointment, letting my shoulders drop. “I understand. No really, it’s fine.” I let my voice wobble on the word fine, and out of the corner of my eye, I could tell Cory was listening. “Well, congratulations, I guess.” Another pause. “Yeah, thanks.”

I disconnected the call and stared down at my cold coffee, as if I didn’t know what to do next. Finally, I looked up, embarrassed and hurt. “He got back together with his girlfriend,” I said.

Cory gestured toward my phone. “At least you got the courtesy of a call.”

“Meeting someone in Los Angeles is impossible,” I said, echoing a thread from one of Cory’s messages to Amelia yesterday.

“Tell me about it. It’s like trying to find a winning lottery ticket.”

“Playing the lottery is fun,” I said. “Dating…not so much.”

Cory laughed. “Let me buy you another coffee. Maybe we can salvage the day after all.”

Good fortune and second chances. Everyone wants to believe those are real.

***

We walked down Main Street, our shoulders brushing, as Cory told me about his job as a high school principal. “The kids have an energy that you can’t find in any other field,” he said. “It’s intoxicating. Their passion. Their potential.”

I thought back to how he spoke of his job to Amelia. “What a privilege to be able to have such a positive influence on young lives,” I said, wondering if he would recognize his own words being spoken back to him. Intentionally spoon-fed in small bites, building a connection he’d feel rather than see.

He looked at me, his expression fiery. “Exactly.”

I was astonished at how easy it was. It was as if he wrote the script and all I had to do was read my lines. I toyed with the lid of my coffee cup as we waited for the light to turn green. When it did, I said, “I used to want to be a teacher. Elementary school.”

We stepped off the curb, making our way toward the boardwalk and the beach beyond. “What happened?” he asked.

I shrugged. The best lies were the ones planted in truth. “My senior year of high school, my mother got sick. I didn’t have time to apply to colleges. I was just trying to stay afloat with my classes and taking care of her.”

We passed a trash can, where we both tossed our empty cups. At the edge of the bike path, we waited for a stream of cyclists to pass. Cory took my hand, and we jogged across and settled on a bench overlooking the vast expanse of sand that led down to the water. “Did she get better?”

“No.” I let the word hang there, the weight of it heavy in the air. “It was an incredibly hard chapter in my life. But it was also a gift.”

Cory looked intrigued. “In what way?”

I pretended to think about my answer, but the words were ready, a shimmering facsimile of what he told Amelia yesterday. “I learned that the worst can happen and I’ll still be okay. Life is filled with lessons. We can either choose to suffer from them, or learn from them.”

I could tell I hit my mark by the way he leaned forward, the way his eyes flashed with a mixture of surprise and admiration. “Not many people your age would have that kind of wisdom,” he said.