Page 7 of Where It Begins

“Skye, hey, hi, it’s Sidney. I’m so sorry. I witnessed an accident and I’m stuck at the scene.”

“Are you okay?” I fiddle with my necklace, my stomach flipping with his anxious tone.

“Yeah. Fine. Rattled, but fine. It seems to be mostly a fender bender. I didn’t want you to think I was a no-show. Can I give you my number? Maybe we can try again next week? Or sooner, depending on how you feel about second chances?”

“Um—”

“I promise I’m not in the habit of standing people up. I’d rather be there with you than here.”

“Sure, you can give me your number,” I concede.

Larissa’s eyes light up and she pushes a Sharpie and a piece of paper toward me. Sidney recites his number and I repeat it to him.

“I gotta go. The police finally arrived. I hope I hear from you. Have a good day, Skye.” The sirens in the background prove he’s telling the truth about the accident.

He ends the call and I pass the phone back to Larissa. “Thanks. Sorry about that. I was supposed to meet someone here, but I didn’t have his number,” I explain.

Larissa’s eyes light up. “Was that the hottie business guy who was in here last week?”

“Yeah, do you know anything about him?”

“He comes in once or twice a week. Always dressed in a suit and super polite.”

“That’s good. Thanks again, Larissa. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I leave the café and return to work, not quite so dejected now that I have his number.

Once I’m back in my office, I check my messages. I have two from Violet asking for an update.

Mom: It didn’t work out. I’ll fill you in at dinner.

Violet: ??

Mom: It’s fine. Have a meeting, chat later. xo

* * *

“So what the heck happened? Does he dress up as a clown on the weekends or something?” Violet asks as she slices carrots into coins.

I snort. “No. He witnessed a car accident and stuck around so he could give a statement to the police. He called the café, so I’d know he didn’t stand me up.”

Violet puts her hand to her chest. “Oh, I like him already.”

“It was definitely the polite thing to do. And I have his number now.” I dredge the chicken through the breading and place the strip on the pan. We’re having chicken fingers and fries for dinner, which is a step up from the Pop Tarts Violet suggested. She would eat gummy bears for breakfast if I let her. In her defense, I can’t burn those.

Her eyes light up. “Did you get a last name?”

“I didn’t. It was a rushed conversation.”

“But now you have his number.” She pops a carrot coin in her mouth.

“That’s right.”

She transfers the rest of the carrots into a Corningware pan and drizzles it with olive oil, brown sugar and fresh thyme. “Have you messaged him?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Okay, good. I say you wait until tomorrow night to message, just to keep him on his toes. You can open with a question about the accident and if everything worked out. Then let him broach the subject of another date.” She sprinkles some salt on the carrots and slides the dish into the oven. “How long should these cook for?”

“You can set the timer for twenty minutes.” I finish the chicken and put it beside the carrots. “It’s a little hilarious that I’m getting dating advice from my teenage daughter.”

---