Page 69 of Hello Stranger

“I’ll return it to you,” she said. “I’ll have it dry-cleaned and bring it back.”

But now I’d been swept away by the general joy of generosity—and the specific high of channeling my mother’s wisdom and kindness. “Keep it,” I said. “It really does look amazing.”

I mean, anybody would look amazing in my favorite dress. But still.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I said, missing it already, even as I nodded.

We both turned to give her a final once-over in the mirror.

“I look better than I did before,” she said, looking herself over. Then she turned to me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“You weren’t even the one who knocked me down,” she said.

But then something occurred to me. “It’s really okay,” I said. “It’s nice to have a reason to do something nice.”

And I meant it.

Fourteen

ANYWAY, THAT’S HOWI wound up walking out of the Bean Street Coffee’s ladies’ room in a wet, coffee-stained, clingy-in-all-the-wrong- places outfit—and running smack into Joe.

Except for a second I wasn’t sure it was Joe.

Because he wasn’t wearing his bowling jacket.

So all I knew for a second was that a man—some kind of man—walked up to me and said, “What the hell happened to you?”

I smiled like I knew him and said, “Coffeetastrophe,” and then I made chitchat warmly and enthusiastically while quietly deducing who he was.

It didn’t take that long. Just a few seconds. The hipster glasses and the floppy hair were kind of a dead giveaway, once I got my bearings.

“Where’s your bowling jacket?” I asked then as confirmation—aware of the one percent chance he’d have no idea what I was talking about.

“Gave it the night off,” Joe said.

“How’s your back?” I asked, for two-factor authentication.

“Magically healed.”

Mystery solved. Officially Joe.

“Should we get some dinner?” Joe asked next.

I nodded. That sounded like a perfect thing to do.

Getting stood up could really make a person hungry.

“Would you like to change first?” Joe asked next.

I nodded again.

And suddenly things just felt… better.

If you’d asked me at the apex of my getting-stood-up misery how this day was going to end, I’d have answered with a cuss-word-laden version of “not good.”

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