I didn’t call him.

In another world, in another time - I would have been the girl to call him. As it was, my hand had shaken holding that piece of paper, staring at his bold, all capital letters handwriting. I wanted to call him. Immediately after reading those words, I imagined what it would be like to hear his voice so close to my ear. What would he have sounded like over the phone?

It didn’t matter. I crumpled the note up and threw it away.

But now, two nights later, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the city at night. Now, I wondered if throwing his number away was a terrible decision. I had stupidly told him too much that night. But he had listened. And… I saw something in his eyes that told me he understood.

And, clearly, he saw something in me too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have left his number.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have stopped on the street to help me to begin with.

Irritated with my own thoughts, I gripped my pillow and turned to the side, shoving it against my ear and trying to block out the noise. In Indiana, nighttime was near-silent; the only sounds were the occasional passing car or rain on the roof. It suddenly occurred to me that I haven’t known what silence sounded like since I came to New York City.

Noise, though, was a small price to pay for freedom from Brandon.

I’d like to take you to Central Park sometime.

Unbidden, Iain’s words flashed across my brain, jarring me fully awake. I should have kept that paper, if only to look at it again. I wondered if he thought of me; I wondered if he asked himself why he hadn’t heard from me. He had felt it too, right? That spark when our hands touched?

Just for a moment, too long, I imagined myself with him. I thought about where we would go, what we would do. I imagined his large hand in mine, heat soaking into my skin, an easy smile spread over his face. I thought of his body over mine, hovering, in the dark; I could almost feel his breath in my ear, that delicious feeling of movement within.

No. I couldn’t think about that. I couldn’t have that.

Oh, but how I wanted that.

For the millionth time since I threw the note away, I tried to remember the numbers written on the page. But they floated mercilessly away, intangible and unyielding. I couldn’t remember what his phone number was.

I told myself that it was better that way.

xxx

The next night, I was back at the bar, watching a game of pool progressing across the room. One of the regulars, Pete, was playing with someone I didn’t know. Pete’s long white ponytail was spread out over his denim jacket, the logo on the back faded from countless washes. He was always in that thing.

I refilled glasses, washed dirty ones and stacked clean ones. Anderson, the owner, was in tonight, working the door and inspecting light bulbs and pushing at tables to see how wobbly they were. He barely looked at me.

How long would I keep doing this? How long could I? My life had settled into something boring - much easier, I supposed, than before, when I had lived a life of idleness, always in a state of ennui. I thought of all those days I stared at screens and books and windows. Waiting for a snake bite.

What was Brandon doing right now? What did he think? Did he wonder where I was? Did he know where I was?

And, was it naive to hope he didn’t? To assume the best, dread the worst?

The glass I was absently cleaning slipped right out of my hands, knocking against the sink and shattering loudly when it hit the ground. Glass went everywhere, and Pete, his buddy, and Anderson all turned to look at me.

“It’s nothing, just dropped a glass,” I said, waving their concern off. I grabbed the handheld broom and dustpan, bending down to sweep up the sharp remains of the glass, colorful pieces of its logo broken into so many places I couldn’t even tell which brewery it belonged to.

As I was sweeping, something white and small caught my eye under the sink. I used my broom to push it toward me, intending to sweep it up, but I saw that it was a piece of paper. Probably an old receipt or something, but out of curiosity, I picked it up and opened it.

Familiar, all capital letters handwriting greeted me, with the phone number I’d been trying so hard to remember these past couple of days.

I stared at it in disbelief. I’d thrown it away. Hadn’t I? I remembered crumpling it up and tossing it toward the trash can. Obviously, I’d missed.

I’d like to take you to Central Park sometime.

Was this a sign? Some divine intervention, or something like that? I clutched the paper, staring at all those details - the date, the time of the transaction, the IPAs he’d drank. I remembered the way he’d looked at me when I told him I’d been married. I remembered the $50 bill poking out from under this very receipt. It had been too much, but I took it anyway.

“Lila, can we get another round?” I heard, and I pocketed the receipt quickly, standing up and seeing Pete and his friend at the bar, watching me expectantly.

Nodding, I slapped on my best smile, shoving Iain out of my head.

“Of course.”