Chapter 16 Chapter 15: Getting to Know Each Other
The journey there is a blur, a smear of city lights and the low hum of the hopper’s engine. I don’t remember the walk from the stop to her street, the steps up to her building. My entire being was consumed by the last twenty minutes of the ride, a frantic, internal rehearsal for this very moment. I had searched for the words, crafting and discarding a hundred different opening lines in my mind. I’d practiced them all: the earnest apology, the charming compliment, the simple, straightforward declaration.
But now, standing before her door, the polished brass of the bell gleaming under the hallway light like a challenge, every single one of those carefully chosen words have vanished. They haven't just fled; they have turned traitor, invading me instead. They clot in my throat, a dry, dusty lump that makes it impossible to swallow. They are a frantic, silent scream in my skull, a jumble of incoherent pleas and explanations that have completely deserted my tongue. My heart is a frantic prisoner beating against my ribs. My hand, hovering inches from the bell, feels impossibly heavy, alien. This is it. The moment stretches, taut and infinite, and I am utterly, completely paralyzed within it, a Nate stranded on the precipice of a future he desperately wants, terrified to knock for fear of what might, or might not, answer.
The door swung inward before my trembling finger could even connect with the bell, as if she’d been waiting on the other side. And there she was. Silver. She was wearing a simple white shift dress that seemed to glow against her skin, the fabric falling in soft, clean lines. She looked perfect. Her long, blond hair was untied, a cascade of pale silk over her shoulders, and she wore very little makeup, if any, allowing the faint dusting of freckles across her nose to show through. She was a vision of effortless grace, so different from the fierce barmaid or the furious Polli who had thrown me out.
My tongue, so meticulously prepared, tied itself into an immediate and hopeless knot. All my rehearsed speeches evaporated into the space between us. “…Hi…” I managed, the word emerging as a dry croak. I brandished the two large brown paper bags from the deli, holding them up like a peace offering and a shield all at once. “I brought food.”
“Come in, Nanda,” she said, and the simple invitation was accompanied by a small, genuine smile that reached her eyes. It was a look I hadn't realized I’d been starving for.
I stepped over the threshold, noticing her bare feet on the cool wooden floor. The intimacy of the detail made me pause. In a gesture of respect, I bent down to untie my laces, leaving them neatly by the door beside a single pair of her shoes.
“Come, sit down,” she said, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it, gesturing to the small sofa I remembered from my last, catastrophic visit. The room was tidy now, the boxes gone. “Would you like a glass of Vin?”
My throat was a desert. I could only manage a sort of jerky nod as I sank onto the cushions, the paper bags rustling in my lap. “Yes. Please.”
At first, the conversation was tight, held back by the ghost of our last encounter. We spoke in careful, polite sentences, like two diplomats from opposing nations testing the waters. We talked about the unseasonable warmth, about my work at the deli, about the book lying on her sofa table.
But as the Vin flowed, a rich, dark red that warmed my chest with each sip, so did our conversation. The careful scaffolding of small talk began to fall away, plank by plank, revealing something raw and real beneath. After a while, the chatter transformed into something new, something pure and unguarded. We both felt it, a connection clicking back into place, stronger and more honest for having been broken.
Encouraged by the vulnerability in her eyes, I told her everything. I held nothing back. I spoke of my parents' pressure, my failure to Tremble, the hollow ache of being a perpetual Changeling. I confessed my confusion with Joel, the desperate, self-destructive horror of the alley, and the profound shock of waking up in her bed, a stranger in my own skin. I left no stone unturned, offering her every shattered piece of my history.
And she listened. Truly listened. Then, she told me her story. She spoke of her time at Uni, of dreams of being a historian that were sidelined. Her voice grew quiet as she told me of a Nate she’d met, charming and older a tutor, who had promised her the world and then, when she’d Trembled into the Polli he desired, he had systematically devastated her life, leaving her with debts and a deep, abiding distrust. She was working at The Apostrophe to pay off what he’d left behind, saving every spare gist to go back and finish her degree. Needed to pay for the year she had missed.
We were no longer a Nate and a Polli, a server and a customer, a betrayer and the betrayed. We were just two people, sitting in the soft light, sharing our scars, and finding, to our astonishment, that they fit together in a way that made each other's pain make sense.
The atmosphere in the room had shifted completely. The nervous energy had melted away, replaced by a profound, comforting warmth. It felt less like the electric charge of two lovers on a date, and more like the deep, easy intimacy of a long-standing friendship. We had laid our souls bare, and in doing so, had built a foundation of understanding that felt more solid than any romantic gesture.
I unpacked the food from the deli, spreading the feast out on her low sofa table, thick slices of smoked poyon, a salad of sharp greens, crusty bread, and a small, decadent pastry I’d saved from the day’s batch. We ate our fill, the conversation now flowing as easily as the Vin, punctuated by comfortable silences and the simple pleasure of a shared meal.
At one point, a dab of rich, dark sauce from the poyan must have smudged the corner of my mouth. She noticed, her eyes crinkling with a soft amusement. “You’ve got a little…” she murmured, gesturing with her finger. Before I could move to wipe it myself, she leaned forward, picking up a napkin. Her movement was natural, effortless.
But then her hand paused. Instead of dabbing with the napkin, her thumb, soft and warm, brushed against my skin, wiping the sauce away herself. The touch was a spark in the quiet room. Our eyes locked. The world narrowed to the point of contact, to the faint scent of her skin, to the unspoken question hanging in the space between us.
I don’t know who moved first. Perhaps we both did. The distance closed in a heartbeat, and before I fully knew what was happening, we were kissing.
It wasn’t like the frantic, desperate kiss in the alley, or the passionate, confusing one on her sofa that had ended in disaster. This was different. It was slow, and searching, and profoundly tender. It was a kiss that tasted of Vin and shared secrets, of forgiveness and a tentative, breathtaking hope. It was the natural, inevitable culmination of the connection we had spent the entire evening carefully rebuilding, a silent promise that perhaps friendship was just the beginning of something even more beautiful.