David came to The Jane a few days later, scruff on his face, a baseball cap covering his hair. He was distracted, glancing at his phone every few minutes. I watched him stare out the window and stare at the TV all in the same minute, not committed to either of them. He smiled at me once, while I was carrying a tray of food to a table. The tray rested on my shoulder, the plates clinking softly together with my steps. But I was used to David’s smiles and this one didn’t reach his eyes. I served the dishes, casting a worried glance over my shoulder at him. There was something wrong. I didn’t have time to talk to him during the lunch rush, and when I finally made my way over to where he’d been sitting, he was gone, a twenty dollar bill on the bar and a note written on the back of the check I had given him. He’d written down his number and asked me to go to the art museum with him.

Meet me there tomorrow, it said. I know you have the day off, I asked your manager. 10:00. Let the heart breaking commence.

An art museum, he knew the way to my heart. I crumpled up the receipt and threw it in the trash, but later I fished it out and stuck it in my purse. It seemed significant somehow that this boy was pursuing my company in such a relentless way. I know you have the day off, I asked your manager.

I sighed. I would go. I could try to tell myself that I wouldn’t and that I didn’t care a thing about David Lisey’s attention, but it just wasn’t true. I had daddy issues just like everyone else, and the pursuit of the heart was something that appealed to me. When the people who were supposed to like you didn’t—it made male attention a requirement.

Sometimes I searched for my mother on the internet. I didn’t even know my father’s name to look for him, but my mother had a Facebook page and some of her albums were open to the public. I wouldn’t dare friend request her. I didn’t want her to know I cared. Her profile was set to private, but every so often she changed her profile picture, and I would study it for hours, saving it to my phone and then deleting it. Saving it again. Was it me or her? Why had she decided not to mother me? Did she love me? I’d never know because I’d never ask. That was the thing about pride, it shortsighted our hearts. Her profile pictures were of her alone, smiling—standing in front of some pub or a national landmark. Sometimes she posed with a brown mottled cat that only had one eye. I’d zoom in on that cat and its disfigured eye—wonder what it had that I hadn’t. My mother hated animals—I’d once seen her kick a dog.

“Anything that’s not a human is a rodent,” she’d told me once. “And some humans are rodents too,” she’d added.

At the time I’d wondered if she was talking about me. She often referred to children as parasites. Seeing her embracing an animal, look at it with sincere fondness—I told myself the cat belonged to a neighbor or a friend—that she was only posting it for appearances’ sake—like those people who wore fur and pretended to like animals. But I wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d changed. That hurt worse than her just being the way she was. That she’d become the type of person who hugged cats close to her chest but had never hugged her daughter. I pushed it all away—I was so good at that. Compartmentalizing was the key to success.

I changed my outfit three times the next morning. First, it was a pair of black jeans and a pink sweater, then grey sweatpants and a thermal top. Then I changed again for obvious reasons, back into the pink sweater. Finally, I settled on all black. I was emo, I was goth, I was an assassin of hearts and I didn’t give a fuck about David fucking Lisey. I pulled my hair into a tight severe bun and slashed eyeliner across my lids. My lipstick…there was none, because girls who didn’t wear lipstick didn’t care. That’s what my mum used to say. I put Chapstick on instead of lipstick in case he tried to kiss me.

SAM. Seattle’s art museum. He was waiting for me outside. I spotted him before he spotted me. I stopped in the middle of the street when I saw him, just as the light changed to red. A car honked at me. I didn’t know why I stopped; maybe it was that I saw him and then I couldn’t move. I made it to the other side just as he saw me. His hands were in his pockets, he didn’t take them out as he watched me walk toward him. There was this look on his face.

“You don’t even seem surprised that I came,” I said.

“I’m not.” He shrugged.

“Why not?”

“When there’s chemistry you can’t stop the reaction.”

“Isn’t that clever, Bill Nye,” I said.

“How do you know about the science guy, English?”

“We have the internet too over on my side of the pond.”

He took my hand as we walked toward the doors, and I let him. He’d given me a nickname and I hadn’t even kissed him yet.

“I like your boots,” he said.

I looked down at my boots. The same ones the bartender had commented on a few nights earlier.

“Why?” I asked him. “What do you like about them?”

“They look like you’ve had them for a dozen years. Like they’re well loved. If you can love boots like that, how much more could you love me?”

I was speechless. Dumb. I felt so stupid for liking what he said, so vulnerable.

“They’re just boots,” I told him. “You’re making a thing out of boots.”

“You’re not even from here, Yara,” he said as he held the door open for me. “Everything you have means something.”

He was right. So right.

“I’ll tell you about the boots if you tell me what was wrong with you yesterday.”

He looked at me in surprise, his fingers squeezing mine for the briefest of moments.

“How do you know something was wrong?” he asked me.

“I could just tell.”

He looked away then back at me. “My dad,” he said. “He had a stroke. He’s all right,” he said quickly. “But, we were scared. Seeing your hero lie on a hospital bed—pale and helpless—really puts things in perspective, you know?”

I didn’t know. I had no heroes. No idols.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But, I don’t like it when you hurt.” I imagined that we both looked surprised. I certainly was.

“Forget I said that,” I said.

“Said what?”

I smiled.

“I like it when you care about me and then pretend that you don’t,” David said. “It’s almost like I’m the only one who has that privilege.”

“Do I come across that cold?”

“Yes.”

I sighed. “You have to. When you’ve been hurt and you’re trying to be okay. You can’t let people know they have power over you.”

He didn’t chastise me or try to prove me wrong. I appreciated the lack of clichés—sympathy. We stopped in front of a painting of a boy on a skateboard. No one was watching him, but he was performing for himself.

“It’s better that you’re cautious,” he said. “If there’s no one to protect you, you have to protect yourself.”

“Wow,” I said. “That almost made me like you.”

“What would seal the deal, Yara? I give great head.” And just like that, we were back to normal—flirty, witty…

I shook my head and he smiled and we looked at a sculpture of a face between a lotus flower. Perfect.

Yeah, I was going to date him. I knew that then. Serious one minute, making jokes the next. He made my truth light and funny without diminishing the importance of it. The perfect man. Perfect for me.