A dress shirt with a geometric tie and khaki-colored slacks is staring back at me. I’m frozen still, unable to move, even though my brain is telling me to go. I immediately think the worst of everything. Anxiety will do that to you. But this man that I’ve never seen before knows my name. My full name. It’s absolutely terrifying. Just when I think I’m about to be mugged, he pulls something out of his pocket.

It’s amazing how long it takes to describe how you feel or what you’re thinking. Something that could take minutes to transcribe happens in milliseconds in your mind. The brain works so quickly that it’s almost hard to comprehend. I’m bringing this up because, in that moment of suspense, in the time between him saying my name and him reaching into his pocket, my brain posed thousands of scenarios. Maybe he’s a mail carrier. Or someone from the church. Or someone from the government, to take that Census survey thing. Or a long-lost cousin of mine. Or the guy from the woods. But he didn’t exactly look like the stalker type. He’s so well put together and handsome. Plus, I’ve never heard of a stalker with the name Nick. It’s just such a trustworthy name, if you ask me.

He breaks the silence, hopefully to reveal why the hell he’s here and why he knows my name.

“I found this card on the floor at Ricci’s today and I tracked you down to give it back. Thank God for the Yellow Pages, huh?”

He chuckles lightly, probably his attempt at lightening the mood. I’m still in shock but this time because this was the last thing I expected. Everything clicks into place. He knows my name because it’s on the front of my card. But why does he have it? And if he found it, why didn’t he just call the card company? Why bring it to me in person? No matter the reason, I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful that it’s no longer lost. And even more grateful that I don’t have to call Capital One and wait on hold for like two hours just to speak to a rep.

I reach out to grab the card, making a mental note to order a replacement. It’s pretty much falling apart. So much for not having to call. I wonder if I could just order a new one online. Oh, maybe there’s a Capital One app that I could download! If you can’t tell, I’m easily distracted but I remind myself to thank him.

“Oh my God! I’m so glad you found it! I’ve been freaking out about it all day. I was actually going to call Capital One right after I finished eating dinner. Your timing couldn’t have been more amazing.”

I try to analyze him, to get a sense of what kind of person he is. His facial expression is so neutral. I wait for a response, hoping that his reply will give me some insight.

“Yeah, well, I would be worried too.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you just call Capital One and report it as missing?”
“To be honest, I was eating at a table near yours at Ricci’s and when I saw you, I just thought you were the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I was going to come talk to you but then your friend stormed out and I thought it probably wasn’t the right time. So when you dropped your card and didn’t come back for it, I thought it would be a good excuse to come talk to you myself. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

I’m a sucker for romance and I think that was just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, especially from a stranger. My heart melts and I instantly feel a connection with him. My second connection of the day. Two more than I’ve had in the last six months, I’d say.

“Wow. I don’t really know what to say.”
“That’s okay. No response necessary.”

 There’s a long, awkward pause and I so want him to ask me out. But that’s never really been my thing. Rowan, on the other hand, would totally do it. That’s when it hits me. Maybe I’ve been living my life all wrong. Up until now, I’ve let everything and everyone control what happens to me. If I want to see change, I need to enact it myself. He interrupts my train of thought.

“Well, you have a good night, Harper.”

He smiles at me and turns to leave. He looks eternally disappointed, like he was waiting for me to make the next move. Now is probably my only chance to speak with him. After all, I don’t have his number. Only his first name. And I can’t imagine how many Nicks there are in Bellevue. I need to make a decision. And I need to do it now. I can’t let him go.

“Wait! Nick, was it?”

He faces me once more with a confident smile. It’s almost as if he knew that I would respond this way. But I didn’t care.

“Yeah, Nick Fairfield. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too.”

He reaches out his arm, offering a handshake and I meet it with the firm shake that I’ve always had. Then another long pause. Oh my God, I’m blowing it. He stares down at the sidewalk for a moment, probably thinking of what to say. I need to say something, anything. It did seem a little strange, though, that he had the courage to come all this way and return my card but that he hasn’t asked me out yet. Even after as bold a statement as the one he’d said.

“I really appreciate you returning my card. And everything you said. That was really sweet.”
“Yeah, of course.”

“Hey, uh, would you maybe wanna hang out sometime?”

 His eyes light up with excitement and his thin lips curve into a large smile, revealing perfectly straight teeth. I’m guessing he had braces as a kid. I imagine him in his teens, metal braces filling his mouth, giving him a slight lisp. Thank God I never needed braces. Everyone always talked about how much they sucked.

“I would love that.”
“Cool. Why don’t you put your number in my phone?”

 I hand him my new Note20, watching as his greenish-brown eyes flicker in the light of the screen. He hands back the phone and shoves his hands into his pockets. He seems nervous.

“There you go.”
“Thanks.”

I wait for him to leave, but he just stands there, as if he’s waiting for something more.

“Well, I gotta go. My food should be here any minute. Thanks again for bringing my card back.”
“Any time. And don’t forget to call.”

I blush and can’t contain my smile. He reads me like an open book and reciprocates the smile.

“Oh, I won’t.”

 As he turns his back to me, I slowly close the door and sit back down on the sofa, card and phone in hand. The butterflies in my stomach feel as though they’ll try to make an escape, flying up my throat and out of my nose and mouth. Or maybe I just feel like I’m gonna throw up. I hear a car in the distance, hoping that it’s the Chinese. I walk over to the window but alas, no food. Just another stranger, driving past my apartment. Probably on their way home from work. Thank God it’s Friday.

The relief of having my card back is overwhelming. I don’t need to worry about calling the company to cancel it, or wondering if a stranger is using it to buy a new flat-screen TV. I look down at my phone and instantly remember my idea of searching for the Capital One app. The Google Play Store probably has an infinite number of apps, most of which I’m sure you have to pay for. But, thankfully, the app for my bank is not one of them. It’s the first one of the search results and I quickly hit the “download” button. It downloads a lot faster than I expected and in just a few minutes, I’m already ordering a replacement debit card. How convenient. I can’t believe I lived without this before.

Hopefully I don’t become one of those people that’s constantly staring at their phone, waiting for a new Instagram like or a DM from some hot guy. I mean, I should be able to control myself, but it’s just so enticing, having everything at your fingertips. Anyway, I never really believed in having all these social media accounts. It turns normal people into complete narcissists, always looking for recognition and attention, with no shortage of options. Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat. Twitter. TikTok. VSCO. Tumblr. Myspace. I’m definitely dating myself with that last one. But I’m sure there are more, countless more. Just another outlet for us to supplement real conversation. And don’t even get me started on texting. Sure, it’s convenient but just call me on the damn phone. Why text for thirty minutes when you could talk on the phone for five?

A quiet knock comes from my front door. I practically sprint to it, my stomach reminding me again of just how hungry I am. Finally, no more surprises. I open the door and see King’s delivery man holding a bag of food. I grab a hundred dollar bill from my clutch and hand it to him. He almost looks surprised. I probably should’ve asked if they could break large bills when I called in my order. Oh well.

“Your total is $54.85. Out of $100, your change is $45.15.”

I did the math in my head, just to be sure. I think that’s correct. Either way, it’s close enough. He hands me my change and I give him a twenty dollar bill. He grins ear to ear, thanking me over and over. With $15,000 in my pocket, or in my living room rather, I think I can spare twenty dollars for someone that I’m sure is severely underpaid. I wish him a nice night, close and lock the door, and make a beeline for the living room. I set the brown paper bag on the coffee table, next to the stacks of money that I still haven’t put away, and take out the much-anticipated food.

While watching even more reruns of Criminal Minds, which I can’t complain about considering how great the show is, I scarf down my egg rolls and my pork fried rice and my General Tso’s chicken. I’m unsure whether it’s the food or just my thinking over the day’s events that reminds me of Ricci’s. I promised Piero that I would drop off my phone number on my way home from the cell phone store. I should probably call and let him know that my card was returned to me, safe and sound. I pull up his Google page on my phone and press the call button. Another convenient feature. It rings for a while before someone picks up. A woman with a mousy voice answers, sounding like she’s in a rush. I turn around to face the kitchen where the stove reads 5:32. Wow, time flies. Ricci’s must be in the middle of their dinner rush. I’ll have to make it quick.

“This is Ricci’s. How can I help you?”
“Hi. I was wondering if I could speak to Piero, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Harper Torres. I spoke to him earlier about my lost debit card.”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Torres. One moment please.”

I’m on hold for about five minutes before Piero answers the phone.

 “This is Piero. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Mr. Ricci. This is Harper Torres. I spoke to you earlier about my debit card.”
“Ah, yes. What can I do for you, Ms. Torres?”
“I was just calling to let you know that I found it. A man that was dining in your restaurant a few tables away from me said that it fell on the floor. He actually returned it to me in person.”
“Well, that’s great. I’m glad you found it.”
“Thank you for all your help. And I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.”
“No, that’s okay, Ms. Torres. You have a nice night.”
“You as well. Bye.”

I hang up and return to my Chinese and Criminal Minds. I finish all my food in a little over half an hour. I guess I really was hungry. Then again, when am I not? I decide to pour myself a glass of wine, to wash away the day’s troubles. After that, the rest of the night goes by fairly quickly, with the aid of glass after glass of Pinot. Before I know it, my head hits my pillow and the rest of my body hits the mattress. I forgot just how comfortable it was. That’s probably just the wine talking, though. Not even thirty seconds pass before I fall into a deep sleep.

…..

Have you ever woken up from a night’s sleep and you can’t move? Some extremely frightening seconds pass before your brain can connect back with your body. Maybe it’s just me, but lying there in fear isn’t exactly the greatest start to your morning. You know what is, though? A missed call from Rowan Wilde. My phone says that she called at 9:22. It’s 12:06 now. I guess the wine aided my sleep a little too well.

I quickly hit the redial button, wanting more than anything to make up with Rowan. I want to explain myself, to explain the situation. But that’s not what our friendship needs right now. She picks up on the third ring. The sound of her voice sends chills through my body.

“Hey. I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Did you just wake up?”
“You know me all too well. Haha.”
“I got your voicemail. I’m sorry that I stormed out yesterday. I didn’t really give you a chance to explain.”
“No, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I know it sounds crazy.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Let’s not talk about it then. Come over tonight, and we’ll have a girl’s night, just like we used to in high school.”
“Oh my God! I forgot about that! Yes, yes, a hundred times yes! I’ll bring some wine, and we can play Truth or Dare!”
“Truth or Dare? What are we, twelve?”
“Please, Harper? It’ll be fun.”

She knows I can’t say no to her. Especially when she says please. And when she says my name like that.

“Okay, we can play Truth or Dare. I have some stuff to tell you anyway.”
“Yay! It’s gonna be so fun! I’ll be over at eight.”
“Okay, see you then.”

We hang up and my mind is left reeling. I so badly want to explain to her everything that’s been going on. But I definitely don’t think she’s going to believe me. Ever since Ryan and I broke up and I dropped out of the academy, she hasn’t trusted anything I’ve said. I guess it’s up to me to prove her wrong and I think tonight is the night to do it. Now I just need to kill eight hours until she gets here.

My first thought is painting. It’s been quite a while since I’ve finished a painting. My supplies have been collecting dust in the corner of my living room for what feels like forever. In reality, it’s only been a few weeks but to an artist, that’s like a lifetime. I look inside myself for some sort of inspiration. Normally I have a habit of painting landscapes and anything related to nature. But today I’m feeling different. I feel like someone who is ready to take control of their life. If Rowan can do it, then why can’t I?

Before I know it, I find myself putting brush to canvas, striking stroke after stroke of pale, peach-colored paint. The thick acrylic streaks across the cotton surface, shaping a face. Almond-shaped eyes and a pixie nose. I mix three different shades of green to fill in the irises. I mix four different shades of brown to create the hair. She’s a natural blonde, you know? I never understood her decision to change it. But blonde or brunette, the paint could never do her justice. With her intense cheekbones and subtle jawline. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows and her soft, orange-tinted lips. A face with no makeup. True beauty. When I finally finish the painting, it’s almost four o’clock. Any true artist can relate to getting lost in their work. I did for nearly four hours. I guess you could call Rowan my muse. I can’t wait to show it to her. She’s gonna love it.