12. The Lunch Encounter
I call from the back warehouse at the shop, where the only air-conditioning vent rattles like it’s working overtime.
I’m on break, flipping through the carbon copies of the day’s route sheets.
The linoleum beneath my boots is sticky in spots, as if someone had spilled a Coke three weeks ago and never cleaned it up.
A faint whiff of chlorine clings to everything back here—sweat, chemicals, and rust.
It’s Monday, late morning, and my fingers sweat against the plastic phone receiver. I dial the number Kevin gave me again. I don’t expect him to pick up—and he doesn’t. The line blares its sequence of beeps and tones, cold and mechanical, just as it did yesterday.
With the receiver pressed to my ear, I listen but hear nothing.
Then it hits: Kevin gave me a fake number.
Not by accident. Not because he forgot. On purpose.
A clean exit without having to say the words.
I set the phone down carefully as if it might accuse me of something.
My stomach twists—not with anger, but something smaller.
Shame, maybe. Or that familiar sting of wanting more than someone else ever did.
The only one still chasing ghosts. Maybe I made Kevin into something he never was—maybe I always do that.
I’m still staring at the phone when it suddenly rings—loud, sharp, like a slap. I flinch and snatch it up before it can go off again .
“Sunbelt Pool and Spa, this is Daniel.”
There’s a brief pause—static and breath—then, “Hey. It’s me. Kevin.” His voice is like rain on hot pavement: calm and unrushed, like he has no idea I was seconds away from writing him off.
I lean back in the creaking chair, my heart pounding like a dropped wrench in an empty metal bucket. “You’ve got good timing,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Another thirty seconds, and I was gonna chuck your number in the trash.”
Kevin chuckles, soft and low. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I was in a meeting and had to find a quiet place to make a call. It’s a work pager that only shows your number. Long story.”
“Uh-huh.” I force a smirk into my voice. “Sure. Thought you gave me a fake number, or maybe you changed your mind.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he says—then, after a pause: “Not to you.”
He says it like he means it, and just like that, the disappointment rewires itself into something lighter. Not quite relief, not yet, but the panic and ache ease.
“Catch you at a bad time?” I ask.
“No, it’s fine,” Kevin says. “It’s just that I’m at work.”
I glance around at the sun-faded posters for chlorine tablets and pool vacuums. “Me too.”
“Hey, but I’m glad you called. It’s been a long time, buddy,” he says. I can almost hear the smile in the way he says it. “Hang on.”
On Kevin’s end, there’s the muffled clunk of a door and a sudden hush. I picture him stepping into his office or a conference room for privacy. There’s a faint rustle—papers or keys maybe—and then it’s just him.
“Okay,” he says. “How have you been? ”
I hesitate, twisting the phone cord around my fingers. “Good, real good. I just wanted to say hi. I can’t believe we ran into each other last week. I had no idea you were up here in Atlanta.”
Kevin pauses.
“I’m okay,” he says. “Staying busy.” He sounds like someone who is half in another room—even if he’s alone.
“Say, you eat lunch yet?” I ask. Then I look at the clock on the wall. It’s 10:30 a.m., and I feel stupid.
“No, not yet,” he chuckles.
“Want to?” I add. “Today?”
He hesitates again. Then: “Yeah. Sure. Meet at Ansley, the same place as last week? Say, 12:30?”
~
By the time I arrive, the sun’s baking the brick walls of the courtyard.
I’ve changed into a clean pale blue polo without the Sunbelt logo stitched on the chest. I pretend I didn’t do it to look better, sitting on the same bench near where we ran into each other last week, trying not to look at every man walking by like he might be Kevin.
When he does show up, he’s wearing fitted khakis and a white button-down rolled at the sleeves, his IBM tote slung over one shoulder. A subtle, clean scent trails behind him—some blend of soap, cologne, and office air. He spots me and gives me a smile and a slight nod.
“Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Thanks for waiting.”
“Would’ve waited longer,” I reply, standing .
We head toward the sub shop at the back corner of the figure-eight-shaped row of shops and businesses to escape the heat and comings and goings of people in the parking lot out front.
It smells like sliced tomatoes, ham, pickles, and warm bread.
Kevin glances around, then picks a table near the back, slightly away from the windows.
“How long do we have?” he asks.
What immediately comes to my mind is forever, but I don’t say that. “My next client is at two, and it’s nearby, so I’m good for a while. You?”
“Great,” he smiles. “No, I’ve got time. I know I’ll be there for a while tonight. I have a big meeting tomorrow, so there’s lots to prepare for.”
We order sandwiches and iced teas, and when the food arrives, we unwrap our lunches with the crinkle of wax paper and the clink of plastic cutlery. The bread is warm from the press. The mustard stings the back of my nose, sharp and bright.
“So you’re in the pool game?” Kevin asks, taking a bite of his roast beef.
“Yeah,” I say. “Mostly field stuff, which I love, but stuck in the office sometimes scheduling, ordering supplies, shit like that.”
Kevin nods. “Well, you always did love the water. Sunbelt, right?”
“Impressed you remembered.”
Kevin smirks. “Hard to forget a company name with a palm tree in the logo, especially when it’s sitting on your chest.”
A flicker runs through me—just enough to notice.
Kevin says it playfully as if we never missed a beat.
It’s nothing on the surface. Just a smile, a memory.
But it lands somewhere deeper, like a match brushing too close to paper that’s already dry.
I don’t look up right away. If I do, he’ll see it.
The ache. The hope. That part of me is still waiting for someone to say I matter.
I take a drink of my tea. The ice clinks, and the taste is sweet and metallic against my tongue.
“How’d you end up here?” It’s only one of a hundred things I want to know.
“Well, I came up to finish school at Emory—just started grad school part-time,” he says. “MBA. I joined an internship program with IBM, and I’m now a full-time junior analyst. I mostly swim in data and spreadsheets, though. Not romantic.”
‘ Romantic .’ I repeat the word in my head. “So you really did become the guy I used to make fun of,” I tease.
He grins. “And you’re still the guy who made fun of me.”
We laugh. It’s light and real. The people and sounds in the deli fade for a second—the fluorescent buzz, the register’s ping, the scent of garlic pickles—it all fades, and it’s just us. Our knees almost touch under the table.
I keep watching his hands. The way he moves. He’s still careful and precise—the kind of guy who wipes the crumbs off the table before he’s even done eating.
Neither of us brings up that night. Not yet. The receipt in my pocket feels heavier by the minute, but I don’t reach for it.
As we finish, Kevin glances at his watch. “I should head back.”
“Me too,” I say, though I don’t want to. “Same time tomorrow?”
He looks at me. I can sense the surprise on his face at my question, the initial reaction of fear or perhaps caution, and the pull of desire to reply with agreement. “Yeah,” he begins, “tomorrow’s a stretch. That big meeting is going to be a killer. ”
“I’ll buzz your pager in the morning,” I say before he can say no. “You know—just in case.”
Kevin pauses, then smiles. He says ‘no,’ but I hear ‘maybe’—and I’m already hoping for ‘yes.’
Outside, the heat wraps around us again. Kevin turns to go, and I watch him walk away, past the workout he skipped and into the parking lot, that solid frame disappearing into the brightness of the day.
My shirt sticks to my back. The tea is gone. The taste of mustard still lingers—sharp, unexpected, like a question that doesn’t fade just because no one answered it.
I’m already thinking about what to say next time—what not to say—and whether next time will even come.