CHAPTER 3: The Austrailian

SLOANE

The smell hits me first. Old coffee, fryer grease, maple syrup that’s been warming since the breakfast rush. It’s not pleasant, but it’s honest, and after the plastic cheer of the last forty-eight hours, honest feels like oxygen.

Doris, the waitress who has probably worked every graveyard shift since 1998, doesn’t bother with a smile. Her name tag is crooked, her hair is the color of midnight in a bad decisions bottle, and the coffee pot seems permanently grafted to her right hand.

"Sit anywhere, hon."

Jackson chooses the booth under the flickering fluorescent by the window. The vinyl seat is cracked and patched with silver duct tape that matches the sky outside. I slide in across from him. The table is sticky. The menus are laminated and permanently stained with coffee rings older than most TikTok trends. I love it here.

Doris fills two chipped mugs without asking if we want coffee. In Mel’s, coffee is assumed. It’s the only thing that keeps the place alive.

"Food?" she grunts.

We both shake our heads.

"Just coffee," Jackson says.

Doris disappears as silently as a woman carrying three pounds of glass coffee pot can disappear.

I wrap my cold hands around the mug. The coffee is scorched, bitter, and perfect. I drink it black and let it punish me a little.

Jackson dumps three sugars in his and stirs with the enthusiasm of someone trying to dissolve a brick. The spoon clinks like a tiny warning bell.

He looks up. Blue eyes catch the weak winter light. "Christmas. Scale of one to ten. Go."

I don’t even have to think. "Eight."

"Only eight?"

"Nobody died. House rules. Death automatically bumps it to nine."

He laughs quietly into his mug. "Reasonable policy."

"Your turn."

"Seven and a half. The ambush setup was brutal, but the lamb was excellent and my sister’s pavlova was perfect. Food buys forgiveness."

"Food always buys something," I agree.

Silence settles between us, but it isn’t awkward. It’s the kind of silence that happens when two people have already decided the other one isn’t dangerous. Or at least not boring.

Outside the window, the sky is turning that particular Chicago purple-gray that means snow is coming. People hurry past with shopping bags and exhausted faces. The holidays are over and everyone looks like they lost a fight with joy and lost bad.

Jackson leans forward, elbows on the sticky table. "Can I ask you something?"

"You’re already asking."

"Fair. Are you always this… unfiltered?"

I consider lying. Most people get the polished version of Sloane: competent, witty, slightly aloof. Safe.

Tonight I’m too tired for armor.

"Only when I’ve spent forty-eight hours being pitied by everyone who shares my DNA," I say. "Small talk feels like another chore on the list."

He nods like that makes perfect sense. "I gave up small talk when I moved here. Hard to talk about the weather when you’ve never seen negative fifteen before. Words fail you."

"Negative fifteen is just Tuesday in Chicago."

"Exactly. After the first frostbite scare, you stop pretending."

Doris refills our mugs without breaking stride. She’s a coffee ninja.

I watch the steam curl up between us. "So. Jackson from Australia. What do you actually do when you’re not returning hideous sweaters?"

"I teach golf. And I play. Small tournaments, mostly regional stuff. Trying to climb the ladder without selling my soul to a sponsor yet."

There’s a shadow behind the last part, but I let it pass. We’re still strangers. Strangers get one layer at a time.

"Golf," I repeat. "That explains the tan in December."

"Perks of the job. I spend half my life outdoors pretending grass is interesting."

"And the other half?"

"Convincing rich men they’re three swing thoughts away from happiness."

I laugh before I can stop myself. It feels foreign. Good foreign.

"What about you?" he asks. "Besides writing words that make people buy fondue sets they’ll never use?"

"I write the lies that sell running shoes to people who haven’t run since high school. Taglines. Emails. The occasional billboard that makes someone feel briefly better about their life choices."

"Also known as advertising."

"Exactly."

He tilts his head. "You any good at it?"

"I pay my rent in Chicago. That’s basically Olympic level."

"Impressive."

I shrug, but warmth spreads anyway. It’s stupid how much I like that he thinks it’s impressive.

We lapse into silence again. The snow has started. Fat, lazy flakes drifting past the window like the city is being dusted with powdered sugar.

Jackson watches it for a moment, then looks back at me. "This is going to sound insane."

"Most good stories start that way."

"I don’t want to go home yet. My apartment is full of leftover ham and my mother’s unanswered texts about why I didn’t flirt harder with the daughter of her friend."

I snort. "My apartment is full of Tupperware I’ll never return and a documentary queue that’s basically a cry for help."

He smiles, slow and crooked. "So we’re both avoiding real life for a little longer."

"Pretty much."

Doris drops the check. Two coffees. Four dollars. I reach for my wallet out of habit.

"I got it," Jackson says.

"It’s two dollars each."

"Then you get the next round."

Next round. The words hang in the air like they’ve already decided something for us.

He leaves a five and tells Doris to keep the change. She grunts something that might be gratitude.

Outside, the cold has teeth now. The snow is sticking to the sidewalk in wet patches. The sky is almost dark even though it’s barely four-thirty.

We stand on the sidewalk breathing clouds. I should say goodbye. Get in my car. Go back to my apartment and my couch and my carefully curated loneliness.

I don’t move.

Neither does he.

"This was…" he starts.

"Unexpected," I finish.

"Yeah."

He pulls out his phone. Unlocks it. Holds it out. "In case we ever need to complain about family again. Or golf. Or advertising. Or the fact that Chicago winters are clearly a human-rights violation."

I stare at the blank contact screen for half a second. Then I take the phone. My fingers brush his. They’re warm. Calloused from gripping clubs, probably. I type my number and hand it back.

His phone buzzes in my coat pocket a second later.

Unknown number: You weren’t kidding about the screaming thing. Good to know.

I save him as Jackson (Target Guy).

He pockets his phone. "Drive safe, Sloane."

"You too, Jackson."

I watch him walk to his Subaru. He waves once through the back window before pulling out.

I sit in my car with the heat blasting for a long minute, watching snow collect on the windshield.

My phone lights up again.

Jackson (Target Guy): Still thinking about enamel. Send help.

I laugh out loud in the empty car.

Then I type back: Only if you promise never to wear that kangaroo again.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Jackson (Target Guy): Deal. Night, Sloane.

I stare at the screen longer than I should.

The snow is falling harder now, soft and relentless.

I put the car in drive, but I already know I’m not going straight home.

Something has shifted. Something small and reckless and warm in the middle of the coldest week of the year.

Next year, I told myself I’d bring someone to Christmas.

I didn’t expect to meet him in the returns line at Target holding the ugliest sweater in the southern hemisphere.

But plans change.

And for the first time in a long time, that doesn’t scare me.

It feels like the beginning of something I might not want to return.