A Chance Encounter
Thebelljinglesoverthe door, signaling the arrival of another patron, but I keep my focus on the notes I am currently copying. The professor’s family emergency had disrupted class, so the TA created a slideshow of the lecture. I know the slideshow will no longer be available after this afternoon, so I reach blindly for my danish, taking a bite while continuing to write. A crumb falls on the paper in front of me, and I brush it away quickly.
“Uh, excuse me. Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”
I hold up a finger and finish the word I’m on before looking up. The man gives me a nervous smile, and I look around the coffeeshop to find he’s right. Every other table is occupied except for the seat across from me. Chewing on my lip, I pull my laptop closer and gesture toward the chair. He sits slowly, as if he’s expecting me to bite if he moves too fast.
“Thanks,” he says quietly, barely audible over the din of conversation around us.
“No worries.”
“And here you are, sir. Sorry about the wait.”
I stretch out my back as Tristan Rife sets a plate and a to-go cup of coffee in the empty space in front of the man at the table. My gaze travels over this unfamiliar man’s appearance. His gray eyes shine as he thanks Tristan; over his forehead falls ash-blond hair. The color reminds me of the cat my childhood best friend had when we were kids. On anyone else, it would look unremarkable, forgettable. On this man, it just looks right.
I check my phone; it’s only ten o’clock, but I’ve been been here for a few hours already. The ice in my drink melted a long time ago. I suck up the last watery mouthful and hand over my empty plate and cup. Tristan smiles, promising to be right back with another.
“Come here often?”
I stifle a snort and stare at the man with a raised brow. What a horrible cliche pick-up line. He seems to realize how his words came off, ducks his head with an awkward laugh. The tips of his ears turn red.
“Sorry. It’s just… You seem comfortable here, and he knows what you want.”
“They know me, yeah.”
We fall silent, and I go back to my notes. After another ten minutes, I reach the end of the slideshow, scribble down the final symbol, and flip my notebook shut. The man looks up from his phone screen and tilts his head.
“Can I ask why you write like that?”
I hesitate but ultimately decide there is no harm in explaining the reason behind writing in cyphers: At least this way, my desk-mate won’t ask to borrow my notes while he sleeps through lectures. The man laughs and nods almost approvingly. I can barely hide my surprise when he starts telling me of his own school years. It smoothly turns into conversation about our hometowns, antics we got up to when we were younger. I’ve always been cautious about talking to strangers, but there’s something about this man that doesn’t send alarm bells screaming. He seems normal enough, and my creep-detector is silent.
So I let myself get lost in our chat, interrupted only by the other as we laugh and talk over each other. Not even Tristan’s arrival stops the conversation. The end comes when my phone vibrates on the table, and I glance down at it as I tell him about the time I broke my arm after jumping into Heather’s pool from a nearby tree.
“Ah, Hell,” I mutter. “Sorry, but I gotta run. It was great to meet you…?”
“Holden,” he replies easily, holding out a hand to shake mine.
“Dealla.”
“It was wonderful to meet you, too, Dealla. Hopefully, I’ll see you around sometime.”
“Well, Austin is a big city, so maybe, maybe not.”
Tristan approaches once more, and I wait until Holden is distracted. Making a quick decision, I rip a square of paper from my notebook and chew on the inside of my cheek as I jot down my name and number in the code I use for my notes. I print in small lettersUse the internetat the bottom. I slide it across the table until it’s partially hidden under Holden’s phone, wave goodbye to Tristan, and gather up my stuff.
It isn’t until I’m back in my apartment that I realize that maybe using a cypher wasn’t the smartest idea. After all, I’m a stranger to him. Why would he want to put in that much effort just for my number? Andwhyhad I given him my number? He hadn’t given any indication of interest in more than idle conversation. I shake my head, pushing the doubts from my mind, and settle in on the couch to wait for Ashton to arrive.
And arrive he does. Katie stays at the door while I scoop the toddler into my arms and kiss his cheeks. My stepsister leaves without a word except to say her son hasn’t had lunch, and I scowl as I close the door. Plopping my nephew into his highchair, I brush a hand over his hair and set about making him a peanut butter-and-honey sandwich.
The day dwindles to night, and Ashton lies down in bed without a fuss. I’ve just tucked his lion in beside him when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I ignore it long enough to sing his lullaby once, twice, then he’s asleep. I tiptoe out of the room, holding my breath on the way, and Ashton doesn’t stir even when the door creaks quietly. Pulling my phone free from the denim, I shove books and toys toward the bins with my foot. The number on the screen is unfamiliar, and I frown, slowing to a stop.
My thumb taps the notification, and the message thread zooms onto the screen. A laugh bubbles up at the sight of the attached photo: a string of symbols drawn in a shaky hand, my cypher that spells outHi Dealla its Holden.I inhale slowly and put away Ashton’s playthings before typing out a response.
Dealla
Ah you looked it up!
Holden
