“Not for me,” he says cryptically.
“Did you grow up around here?”
“No. I’m Canadian. From a fishing village in British Columbia, not too far from Vancouver.”
“A real fishing village? With burly, weather-worn fishermen stomping around in salt-crusted boots? Docks with fishing nets and sea gulls,” I say dramatically. “Do you own one of those big yellow hats?”
“And plastic overalls to match, obviously,” he jokes back. “You’ve given fishing villages a lot of thought.”
“It seems so quaint and charming. Did you grow up fishing?”
“Not in the way you’re imagining. Steveston Village isn’t quaint or charming. Crews go deep-sea fishing from there.”
“Do you miss home?”
He shrugs ambivalently so I drop my line of questioning.
Our breakfast-inspired feast arrives, and we dig in, chatting about random things. Randall talks about locker room pranks and his vacation in Costa Rica last summer. I mention my one failed season as a producer on a cruise ship and the perils of directing a kid’s show featuring a purple dinosaur.
When our stomachs are full and the third refill of tea gets cold, the conversation lulls. Maybe I should be disappointed that we didn’t get our final sex session, but this meal is more chatter than we had through our last seven or eight dates combined. The number hardly matters, now that it’s time to say goodbye.
Before I begin the awkward farewells, Randall leans over.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“About?”
“About us.”
I barely quell a groan of discomfort because the last thing I want to do is explain myself again.
“Randall, I don’t think—”
“Hear me out. You already have my number and I have yours. Let’s be friends. No strings or dates or whatever. Give me a call when your play goes live and I’ll, I don’t know, read about Shakespeare foursomes and call you if I have questions.”
Friends. If you had asked me earlier today, I wouldn’t think it was possible. But after how quickly and easily the last few hours with Randall went by, it appears we are more than capable of staying casual. Keeping in touch platonically won’t be a big deal.
“I won’t be around for the next few months, so it’s not like we can hang out,” I remind him.
“Hockey playoffs are around the corner. We’re both busy. I just mean, don’t throw my number away, and I won’t sell yours to a phone marketing agency.”
That makes me laugh.
“I, um, I really do want to be friends,” he says, gaze lowered. “Apart from my teammates, I haven’t gotten to know anyone from this city.”
“But you’re out all the time! And not just with teammates.”
He tilts his head and rubs his knuckles on a stubble-rough jaw. “Elise Chen, have you been social media stalking me?”
“Lily, not me,” I protest. “OK, a teensy bit me.”
“Well, then you know I’m not gonna be pining for you,” he says with a wink.
An obnoxious snort escapes, and I place a hand over my mouth. Just because I can’t imagine Randall ever pining for anyone, least of all me, I shouldn’t snort like a farm animal, either.
Leaning on his forearms, he dons a slight frown. “It doesn’t sit well that we’ll never talk to each other again.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” I agree automatically.
