Chapter 11 Chances
I’m outside my building earlier than I ever am, the morning still thin and gray. I could line up a dozen excuses for why I’m here....efficiency, poor sleep....but the truth is simpler and harder to sit with.
I’m meeting Michael.
I took the elevator down, but it feels like I used the stairs. Like my body dropped too fast and never quite caught up. I can tell already, this is not going to be a good day.
The diagnosis is still new. A couple of weeks. Early stages. Early should mean hope, it should feel like time is on my side.
It doesn’t.
I don’t know how to explain it without sounding dramatic or defeatist, but hope feels just out of reach. Like my body knows something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet. A quiet, instinctive certainty lodged deep in my gut, telling me not to get attached to outcomes. Like whatever is happening inside me has already decided how this ends.
My phone buzzes with a reminder for my hospital visit later today. I exhale slowly. It’s going to be a long one. The principal's the only one who knows. An old man with liver spots and soft hands who insists on calling me “son” and tells me to rest when I need to. Statistically, I should outlive him. The irony isn’t lost on me.
My eyes drift to my bike, leaning against the rack, I had a car once. Sold it three years ago without much thought. Bought the bike instead because I wanted to. Because the school isn’t far. Because I liked the burn in my legs, the way movement made me feel earned.
Right now, the bike feels like a dare.
My body is tired. But the idea of not riding, of letting that go too, sits worse than the exhaustion. I’m not willing to lose that yet.
Not today.
I step closer, fingers curling around the handlebars. I remember the cafe's address by heart. It’s close enough that it makes me wonder if this is actually a place he knows and loves, or if he chose it because of the proximity. Because the closer it is, the more time there is. More room to linger. More room for things to happen.
I push off on my bike and start pedaling.
It’s only a few blocks. Still, about halfway there, my breath turns shallow, the rhythm breaking apart without asking my permission. I have to stop, I put a foot down on the curb and bend forward slightly, hands on my thighs, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth.
The anger comes fast and sharp.
Not at anyone. Not even at my body, really. Just at the fact of it. The interruption....the reminder. I can’t do anything useful with the anger, so I don’t try. I take another breath. Let it out. And then I let it go, because holding onto it would cost me more than it’s worth.
It's six twenty.
God, that’s early. Desperately so. We said six thirty. The idea that I might be the one sitting there first, waiting, makes my stomach twist. That feels vulnerable. Like showing up to something before you’re sure you’re wanted.
I run a hand through my hair, then reach into my bag and pull out my glasses. I slide them on even though I don’t need them yet. I usually only wear them when I’m reading, but right now they feel like a shield. Something that says I’m allowed to observe instead of participate, if I want to.
I park the bike and stand there for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the strap of my bag, checking my reflection in the darkened window like it might suddenly tell me something useful.
Then I go in.
The café is small and almost empty. It smells like coffee and something warm and sweet, vanilla maybe. There’s soft music playing. The kind of place that feels curated.
My eyes sweep the room once—
And then he stands from the corner table. He rises like he’s been waiting, lifts one hand and gives a small wave like he does this sort of thing all the time. Seeing him again hits harder than it should. Not like surprise, like impact.
He stays standing, and just like the last two times, the first thing that lands is the interest in his gaze. It’s blatant and undiluted. He looks at me like my silence tells him everything he wants to know. I look away as I walk over, because I can feel his eyes moving over me, taking inventory. When I finally reach the table and lift my head, it’s to find him watching me with a seriousness that borders on unsettling.
“You came.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He huffs softly. “I was cautiously optimistic. And if you hadn’t, I probably would’ve stopped by your school again. We’ve established I’m persistent.”
“I thought you were selective.”
“I am,” he says easily. “Selectively persistent.”
He holds his hand out. I hesitate, just a beat, before taking it. His grip is firm. There’s strength there that doesn’t need to announce itself. Just like last time, it sends a sharp, unwelcome awareness through my chest. When he lets go, my hand feels emptied of the weight it was meant to hold.
He smiles then, and it's heartbreakingly devastating.
“I like the glasses,” he says softly. “They make you look all disciplined.....make me wanna corrupt you.”
My pulse trips, and I hate how seen I feel over something so stupid.
I murmur, low, “Good morning to you too.”
My eyes betray me immediately, drop to his mouth. His lips are unfairly distracting up close, like they know exactly what they’re capable of and are in no rush to prove it. There’s something almost cruel about how tempting they look this early. I catch myself and look up fast, straight into those blue eyes. The moment stretches, and I know, with a sinking certainty, that he can tell where my mind went. Not because I’m obvious. But because he looks like a man who notices everything, especially the thoughts you don’t mean to show.
I try not to fidget, but my hands have a mind of their own. I glance around, desperate for something to say, anything, but the words stick. I haven’t felt this nervous.....maybe ever.
“You always look like you’re deciding whether to run or stay,” he says, voice calm but sharp.
I turn to him, and he’s still looking.....eyes holding me in place, like he knows what I’m thinking before I do.
“Maybe I am.”
He tilts his head, “Then I like that you haven’t decided to run yet.”
“I probably should.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “No,” he says, low, cocky, as if the word itself knows I won’t, "And if you did, I'd just chase you anyway. You run....I follow, you stay....we both get what we want.”
I scoff, half out of frustration, half out of admiration. “You talk like you already know me.”
He leans forward, and before I can blink, he reaches out and lifts my glasses off my face. The room narrows. “No,” he says, eyes
locking with mine. “I talk like I want to.”