Page 1 of It's a Date (Again)

CHAPTER1

The first raindrop settles onto my cheek. It’s warm despite the cool Chicago air. Gusts of wind blow between the lit-up skyscrapers, rustling my long locks. I spent an hour curling my hair for really no reason at all, and I’m sure it resembles more of a bird’s nest rather than the soft, loose ringlets I created earlier. I catch a glimpse of myself in a window of a closed business. Yep. My blonde hair is exactly how I pictured it, and my pencil skirt has twisted 180 degrees clockwise. I swivel it back into place and tie my trench coat closed. Cars and city buses whoosh past me. Horns blare intermittently. Traffic is the sound of the city. I’ve lived here for a long time, so it’s become more like white noise to me. It’s comforting—a reminder that I’m not alone.

I breathe in the crisp fall air, savoring it, because I know it won’t last more than a couple of weeks. As a midwesterner, the four seasons are like a personality trait to us. We’ll brag that we have all of them, gush about our hot summers, our snowy holidays, our colorful falls, and our blooming springs. But we always leave out the fact that they’re not divided up even remotely equally. Three months of a hot, humid summer, two months of a rainy spring, two weeks of a heavenly fall, and six and a half months of stone-cold winter. But it’s this weather right now that makes it all worth it, even if it is fleeting. It’s the short-lived moments where life happens.

Another raindrop hits my cheek. I wipe it away but realize it isn’t rain that’s streaking my face. It’s tears. I’m crying, and I don’t even know why. He told me he loved me. I told him I didn’t love him back. It’s simple. Like a math equation. Two plus one does not equal four. The feelings weren’t mutual. It just ... it doesn’t work. But if it’s that simple, then why am I crying? Maybe it was the look in his eyes. He was stunned. No, he was devastated, like he had imagined it playing out very differently. Like me saying I didn’t feel the same way was never even a remote possibility. He asked me a couple of times if I was sure. I told him I was. I was sure. Wasn’t I? He reminded me of the good times we had. And we had a lot of them. But I said no. I said I’m sorry. I said,I don’t feel that way about you.His shoulders slumped. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He tucked his chin in, and his gaze fell to the ground. I immediately felt guilty, or at least that’s what I thought I felt ... guilt. It sat in my stomach like a rock, heavy and all-consuming. Then, he nodded and walked away. That was that. But if that was that, why am I crying? And why do I feel so empty?

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my coat. It makes no difference because they just keep falling, like rain from bloated clouds pushed beyond their limits. They must be coming from somewhere. At an intersection, I wait for theWALKsignal to turn. Cars pass by in a blur, and it’s not because they’re driving fast. It’s because I can’t stop crying. It feels like I’m viewing the world through glass, unsure of my place in it.

“Hey, miss,” a voice calls out. Startled, I turn around quickly to find a large man dressed in faded sweatpants and an old, oversized jacket. He’s more than twice my size, or maybe I see him that way because I feel so small right now. His skin is weathered, evidence of a hard life, but his eyes are kind, evidence that he hasn’t let the hard times harden him. Pinched between his thumb and pointer finger is a torn piece of cardboard with a message written in Sharpie. It reads,DOWN ON MY LUCK. ANYTHING HELPS.Despite his sign, somehow the corners of his lips turn up.

Without thinking, I reach into my purse and pull out a couple of one-dollar bills. It’s the only reason I carry a small amount of cash on me at all times. My friend Maya is always warning me that it’s dangerous to give money to others, that I might get robbed or worse in the process. But I always say if it’s dangerous to help another person, then my middle name must be Danger. I know the difference between needing help and not needing it can come down to one bad incident or one wrong decision. You can’t control whether you need help or not, but you can control whether or not you help.

“It’s all I have,” I say, extending the dollars and a tender smile.

He glances down at my hand and then meets my gaze. “Then it’s all I need. Thank you, miss. Bless you.” His grin never falters as he accepts the cash and nods. Just as he’s about to turn away, the man stops and squints, doing a double take. “You all right?” he asks.

I wipe at my face again and sniffle. “Yeah.” My answer doesn’t come out even remotely convincing, but I assume he’ll say, “Okay,” and be on his way. That’s the socially expected thing to do, and it’s what everyone does.

He stuffs the dollars into his coat pocket and shuffles his feet. “I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t believe you.”

I nibble on my bottom lip, trying to stop it from quivering. I don’t know what to say. That wasn’t at all the response I was expecting.

“No, really, I’m fine.” I force a smile. It’s a crooked one, though. I’m sure I look like a total mess, complete with smeared mascara, bloodshot eyes, and tangled hair. But my disheveled appearance doesn’t seem to faze him.

He presses his lips together and studies my face. “Then why are you crying?”

I shrug and glance down at my shoes. “I’m not sure,” I say. I’m embarrassed that I’m crying in front of this man and doubly embarrassed that I can’t even explain why it is that I’m crying.

“Deep down you must. I’m Hank, by the way.” He extends his hand toward me.

I look at his face, covered in salt-and-pepper facial stubble, and then at his large, calloused hand, complete with neatly trimmed nails. “Hank. I’m Peyton.” My hand disappears in his, and we shake.

“Like the football player?”

“Yeah, but after Walter, not Manning. Mine’s spelled like Manning because my dad got the spelling wrong, and my mom didn’t correct it because she liked it better with anerather than ana. But yeah, like the football player ...” Realizing I’m rambling, I trail off and fiddle with my fingers.

Hank chuckles. “Glad it’s after Walter. Especially here in Chicago.”

“Yeah, me too.” It feels like I’m submerged underwater, so I know those damn tears just keep falling. I wish I could turn them off, so I try to grin through them instead. I must look unhinged right now, but Hank doesn’t seem to notice or care. He simply smiles.

Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he rocks back on his heels. His face turns from jovial to serious. “So, tell me what happened to you tonight. I can’t leave you out here crying without at least trying to make you feel better.”

I sniffle and clear my throat. “It’s nothing. It’s silly, actually.”

“If it’s got you crying, it must not be silly to you.”

I break my gaze again, staring down at my feet for a moment before looking back at Hank. His kind eyes search mine, and his brows draw together as though he’s really concerned about me. I don’t know this man, but I get the feeling he would stand out here all night talking to me if need be.

“Well, a guy told me he loved me tonight.”

Hank scratches his chin and makes ahumphsound. “Sounds awful,” he says, sealing his sarcasm with a small grin.

I nod and laugh and cry at the same time. “I told you it was silly.”

He flicks his hand. “Nah, there’s gotta be more to it. How did you respond to his declaration of love?”

“Well.” I lower my chin and wipe at my wet face again, but it feels more like I’m trying to mop the ocean. “I told him I didn’t love him back.”

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