The Date

I spent forty minutes figuring out what to wear and finally chose a cream ribbed top, dark jeans, and my white New Balances, which was pretty much what I would have worn any other Saturday, and that was kind of the point. I didn’t want to look like I had put in too much effort. But I had. That difference mattered.

Evan picked me up at six in a dark green SUV, big and quiet like cars that are really expensive. He wore a dark navy henley and light wash jeans, making it seem like he just grabbed whatever was closest, which either meant he had great instincts or he had also tried but was better at hiding it than I was.

I decided to go with instincts.

The Tanuki on Fifth was louder than I expected, which was actually helpful. Loud meant there was no awkward silence to fill, allowing me to sit across from him and let the night unfold naturally without trying to control it. I had been reminding myself of that on the way there.

Evan studied the menu with the kind of focus that suggested he already knew what he wanted. The menu was just a distraction. He was doing the same thing I was, finding something for his eyes to focus on while the atmosphere settled.

That was something. I just wasn’t sure what yet.

“The tonkotsu,” he said, not looking up. “If you’re undecided. It’s rich pork broth, soft egg, the whole deal. I’m getting it, and it’s the best thing here.”

“I was thinking about the shoyu.”

“The shoyu is good.” He put the menu down. “But the tonkotsu is better.”

“That’s a pretty bold opinion about someone else’s choice.”

“I have a lot of bold opinions.” There was no showmanship in it, no waiting for me to react. Just a straightforward statement. “You’ll get used to it.”

I ordered the tonkotsu.

The restaurant was narrow and cozy, with tables close enough to overhear the next conversation if you leaned in. The lighting had that warm amber glow that makes everything seem a bit more important than it really is. I had been cautious about that going in. Important lighting on a night I was intentionally trying not to make important.

I was not making it important.

Evan had his elbows resting on the table, chatting about a mishap that occurred in Environmental Science that week, a lab incident that turned into a specific and increasingly hilarious situation. I was keeping up with him, laughing at the appropriate moments, while also quietly noting how different this was from what I had anticipated.

I had expected a careful approach. The kind of carefulness that comes from someone who knows something significant and is trying to prevent that knowledge from altering anything, which inevitably changes everything. I had mentally prepared for this on my drive over.

But it didn’t happen.

When we sat down, he had started to say, “how’s the -” and then paused. He changed direction. “Actually, never mind. Tell me what you’ve been watching.”

That change cost him something. I could sense the weight of it. Yet he went ahead anyway.

I shared what I had been watching, and he had thoughts on it. We debated for about ten minutes.

The ramen arrived, and it was just as delicious as he had claimed. I told him so, and he replied with a knowing “I know” in a way that should have been annoying but was actually just amusing. I ate while the restaurant buzzed with warmth and noise, and I didn’t feel like I had to put on a show at that moment.

That was the most unique experience I’d had in two months.

Evan in a group was self-assured, a bit electric, and somewhat aware of being observed. But Evan sitting across from me was more subdued about it. He asked what I would have done differently with the last three episodes of the show and genuinely listened to my response, then challenged me, and we disagreed about the ending of the second season for a solid fifteen minutes.

That was also enjoyable.

“I need to ask something,” he said after the bowls were cleared, and we were both sipping water, enjoying the comfortable pace of people who had eaten well. “You can tell me to mind my own business.”

I pressed my thumb into my palm under the table.

“Why did you move to Sierra Vista?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback. “I thought I was the one asking the questions.”

“You were just a bit slow.”

Something in his expression changed, that recalibrating look. “My dad got transferred.”

“From California.”

“San Diego.” He set the glass down. “I really didn’t want to come. I made that pretty clear to everyone for about two weeks straight.”

“Two weeks sounds optimistic.”

“Is that still San Diego talking or is that actually true?”

The corner of his mouth moved. “Bit of both.”

I looked at him a beat too long and he looked back and neither of us said anything and then we were both looking at the table.

He didn’t go straight to my house.

I noticed when he turned away from my street instead of toward it. He didn’t explain and I didn’t ask, and about five minutes later we were at the overlook, the flat pull-off on the ridge where you could see the whole valley laid out below, and he put it in park and left the engine running for the heat.

The valley was lit up the way it got at night, scattered and specific, and neither of us said anything for a moment.

“This is where everyone comes,” I said.

“I found it the first week.” He had his elbow on the door, looking out. “Just me and my dad now, so. Drove up here every night for like ten days. Just sat.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“It was extremely sad.” He said it without self-pity, just the fact of it. “Also the view is genuinely great so I can’t complain.”

I looked at the valley. He was right about the view. I thought about the last time I’d been up here, all of us together, Emory’s stick sailing off the guardrail, Chandler’s forearms on the side panel of the Jeep. This was a different version of the same place. Same valley, different everything else.

We stayed for maybe twenty minutes. He talked about San Diego a little more, not the nightmare part, just what he missed: the sound of the ocean at night, a specific taco place, his dog that had stayed with his mom when his dad moved them out. She was a brown lab named Penny. He said her name like it cost him something.

I told him about Happy Paws. The dog I’d been training for six months who had finally started to trust me. He asked what kind. I said a shepherd mix named Cove, three years old, came in scared of everything. He said: and now? I said: getting there.

He glanced over at that. Just for a second.

Then he shifted into drive and took me home.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said. About four minutes in.

I knew what he meant. I’d known it would come up eventually, not the specifics, just the recognition that it was there. I thought I would have something prepared.

I didn’t.

“I’m not used to people saying things like that without a lot of extra stuff around it,” I said.

“Is there supposed to be extra?”

“Usually.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Somewhat,” I said, and he caught that and laughed, and I laughed too, and it was the most normal I had felt in weeks. The laugh came from somewhere spontaneous. That was the thing about it.

He parked in front of my house and left the engine running, and I didn’t immediately get out.

“The tonkotsu,” I said.

“Right call.”

“You were annoyingly right.”

“I usually am.” The confidence up close felt different than it did from across a cafeteria. The car was small, and the street was dark, and I was aware of everything.

I got out before I could overthink it.

“Hey,” he said, through the open door.

I turned around.

“Next time. You choose.”

Not a question. I closed the door. He waited until I reached the end of the front walk before he drove off.

I knew because I heard the engine shift.

The light was on in the living room.

Dad and Pops were sitting on the couch with the TV volume low, and the atmosphere in the room felt like two people who had been awake without saying they were waiting. Dad had a book resting on his knee that he wasn’t actually reading. Pops was sipping his coffee.

“Hey,” I said from the doorway.

“How was it,” Dad asked. Casual. Really casual.

“Good.”

“Good,” Pops said.

Bernard came over to lean against my legs. I scratched his ears and glanced at my dads on the couch; they looked back at me with expressions that suggested they had questions but were choosing not to voice them, which felt like a question in itself.

They knew Chandler. They’d known him since we were born. Evan was a name they’d heard twice, linked to a guy who drove a nice car and who I had apparently spent an evening with willingly.

I wasn’t ready to explain any of that right now.

“I’m going to bed,” I said.

“Get some sleep,” Dad replied.

I was halfway up the stairs when Stetson came out of the kitchen holding a glass of water. He looked at me, and I looked at him.

“And?” he asked.

“Good night, Stetson.”

Once upstairs, I took off my shoes and sat on the edge of the bed.

I thought about the ramen. The warm amber light. The pivot at the beginning, the cost of it, the fact that he had gone through with it anyway. I’m glad you told me delivered like a sentence and not a thing. The seven minutes. The engine shift.

Then I thought about Chandler. Not just the background noise of him like I had during dinner, but more like I was placing two things side by side in the silence and examining them. Not a comparison. More like trying to grasp what I was holding and realizing it had more facets than I had expected.

I picked up my phone.

it was good.

Noelle’s reply came back in four seconds.

WHAT WAS GOOD

I stared at the ceiling, smiled, and then placed the phone face down on the mattress.

I’d answer in the morning.