Page 31 of The Tryst

The sound of Ms. Pac-Man eating a ghost greets me as I head into Cosmo’s, a retro arcade in the Village. I scan the joint for my sandy-haired friend, but I don’t see him at the bar, or the games, or at a table.

When Ms. Pac-Man dies loudly, someone behind me says, “Oh man, that’s the worst.”

Someone I know. My former boyfriend fills the arcade doorway, looking nothing like his history major, clean-shaven self of yesteryear.

“Is David Bancroft under that beard?” I ask. “Beneath that wild hair?”

“Don’t tell a soul,” he whispers, then wraps me in a tight hug in the entryway.

But I’m still shocked when he lets go. He seems so different from when we met at Columbia. I was a senior and he was a junior. He’d needed a math tutor, and the school’s tutoring program paired us. We hit it off, working on equations and, admittedly, flirting. We dated for four months or so, but eventually agreed we were better off as friends.

“C’mon, let’s grab a bite then play some games,” he says.

We order sandwiches and beer and find a seat, and I park my chin in my hand. “So, tell me all about Canada. Where were you? What did you do?”

He regales me with tales of his treks deep into the forest, his experience with nature, and the meaning he found in connecting with the earth.

“It just made me realize I want to do something that really helps the planet, you know? I’m thinking maybe I can do something for animals and the climate. Like when animals get displaced from homes or shelters due to hurricanes, floods, or forest fires. Maybe I could raise money for that.”

We discuss his ideas over our sandwiches until he finishes with, “I’m going to do it. I’m going to use some of my trust fund from my grandparents. Start a little non-profit and raise money to help animal shelters in the area. I’ll start with my mom’s friends.”

“I’d love to help,” I say. “I’ve planned a few charity fundraisers over the years.”

“You’re the best,” he says and reaches across the table to ruffle my hair. When he sits back, he shakes his head in amusement. “So ridic that our moms think we’re a thing.”

I laugh too. “Proof: you just ruffled my hair.”And never gave me an orgasm. But I keep that part to myself.

“I definitely don’t ruffle Cynthia’s hair.”

“Yeah, what’s the story with this girl you can’t get over?”

“She’s a bartender at a bowling alley in Newark. Her brother works as one of the guides for the wilderness trek, and Cynthia and I met when she came along to help out on the trip. But she loves camping and hiking too.”

“So you have the whole outdoor thing in common.”

“We do.” He sounds like a fool in love. But then his smile disappears. “I think I freaked her out when I proposed to her.”

“What???”

He just shrugs. “Yeah, she kind of told me to slow down.” He scratches his jaw. “Or maybe she saidslow the fuck down.I just hope I didn’t scare her away.”

“Can you? Slow down?” I ask, genuinely concerned. David was always a full-speed-ahead kind of guy. I’m the one who pressed the brakes on us, though he immediately agreed that friendship felt right.

“Sure,” he says, maybe too quickly. But he adds in a resolute tone, “I can. I will. I mean, I’m not driving out to Jersey every day, am I?” He glances up at me like he’s looking for approval.

“That’s good.” I pat his hand affectionately. “So, a bowling alley in Jersey? Do I even have to ask if your mother had a coronary?”

“No, you do not.”

* * *

Alone in my apartment that night, I settle onto the couch, check on my social feed, and respond to comments on The Makeover. There’s a DM from Storm, too, thanking me for the shoutout the other day. Then he adds,Plus, there’s a rumor a Mia Jane shop is coming to New York soon. Prayers, girl!

I send him a praying hands emoji, then a note:I better be the first to know!

We chat some more then I return to my comments. I’m about to close out, but then I do a double take when I spot a post fromDistractibleGuy. It’s a question—Does it hold up when you go dancing?

A warm flush spreads across my cheeks and down my chest. Giddy with hope, I click on the name. I’m tingly, too, as I check out the profile, created just today. There are no videos. No photos. The profile pic is just an icon of a glass of liquor. Looks like scotch.

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