Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
OLIVER
The rideshare pulled to a stop outside Café Lucid, fifteen minutes before my scheduled meeting with Katherine Reynolds. I stared through the window at the familiar storefront, memories surfacing like debris after an asteroid impact.
This was where it all began. Where Zahra had first proposed her fake relationship scheme. Where the foundation of my undoing had been laid, brick by careful brick.
"You getting out, man?" the driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
I nodded, gathered myself, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of coffee and fresh pastries. Seattle continued its rotation regardless of my personal gravitational collapse.
I hadn't wanted to accept this booking—hadn't wanted to accept any bookings. But I'd done it anyway.
Not because I expected anything good, but because it was routine. Because muscle memory was easier than grief.
Last night I'd finished my day at the university—lecture, office hours, faculty meeting—and returned to an apartment that felt emptier than space itself, despite Emmet's occasional presence.
I made myself a bowl of cereal for dinner, not tasting a single spoonful, and at precisely 7:12 PM, opened Foxy's dashboard on my laptop.
A new booking notification had blinked at the top of the screen.
Katherine Reynolds. Introductory coffee date. 8:30 AM tomorrow. Café Lucid.
A small glimmer of hope sparked inside me, then faded before it became a flame.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been booked for an intro there; clients seemed to like the ambiance, but every time was just as sharp and painful as the last.
A glimmer of hope, and then—not Zahra.
Of course, it wasn’t Zahra.
It was never Zahra.
Another shattered breath had slipped out of me. Another quiet little death.
I'd sat back in the chair and stared at the screen for a full minute, waiting for something—relief, dread, anything—to rise. But all I felt was the usual numbness.
Still, I confirmed the booking, laid out my clothes, and went to bed at a decent hour, though I barely slept.
Now, standing outside the café, I painted on the expression I'd perfected over the years—charming, attentive, utterly untouchable.
It didn't matter what was underneath. It never had.
There were only two constants left in my life: Stars died, and I performed.
I walked into the café, the bell above the door announcing my arrival. The barista nodded in recognition. I wondered briefly if she remembered the countless regulars who passed through, or if something about my visits had made an impression.
I chose a table in the corner, angled to see the door, and ordered a black coffee. Katherine Reynolds's profile had been sparse—thirty-five, professional, new to Foxy's. The sort of booking I'd have looked forward to a few months ago. A simple exchange with clear parameters and low emotional risk.
The door chimed again. I glanced up automatically.
Some guy wearing a striped shirt and a beret walked in, a pointy goatee decorating his chin and a Salvador Dali moustache curling above his lip.
“Tell me no one understands your artistic vision without telling me no one understands your artistic vision,” I muttered under my breath.
Zahra would have loved that one.
I'd been deliberately avoiding thoughts of Zahra, compartmentalizing her into a locked corner of my mind. But being here, in this café, made it nearly impossible. Her ghost lingered at every table, her laugh echoed in the ambient chatter, her scent seemed to mingle with the coffee aroma.
I checked my watch. 8:23 AM. Still early.
The door chimed again.
This time, I didn't look up. I stirred my coffee, watching the tiny whirlpool form and dissipate. A minute passed, then another. I kept my eyes down, maintaining the illusion of casual distraction while replaying every micro-moment of my and Zahra’s first meeting here.
"Oliver?"
That voice .
My head snapped up, coffee forgotten, as time stretched and compressed around me.
Zahra stood before me, looking as sharp and professional as always. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, her makeup done to delicate and natural-looking perfection. She wore jeans and a silky green blouse—casual, understated, beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
I blinked, certain I was hallucinating. “Zahra.” I heard the tremor in my voice and forced myself to center.
Structure. Order. Control .
I had constructed my life around those principles like they were universal constants—precise equations that I believed would keep me safely on trajectory.
But what I thought were immutable laws that would shield me turned out to be a decaying path spiraling directly into a star's corona. The very principles I’d trusted to protect me had plotted my inevitable collision course.
Zahra smiled, waiting, rocking on her heels as the silence stretched between us. Then she tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
“May I join you?”
I was up on my feet and pulling her chair out before the word “yes” had left my mouth.
Zahra giggled softly and thanked me as she took her seat.
“I'm actually waiting for someone," I said, hoping Zahra won’t feel flustered and leave. “She should be here in about five minutes, but until then, I’d love to sit with you.”
A bright smile lit her face, but I noticed the amusement that ghosted through her eyes. "I'm curious who you’re waiting for."
You .
"Katherine." The name felt strange on my tongue now, confronted with the very real presence of Zahra. “It’s a RAD thing, not a real date,” I hurried to explain.
“Oh?” The traces of amusement were now prominent in her expression. "And if I told you I'm Katherine Reynolds?"
I froze, my mind processing her words, their meaning. And then I laughed. Because what else was there to do?
I’d locked myself in a fortress of solitude, and Zahra had found the one way in, with an Uno reverse card nonetheless.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
“You booked me for a date?”
“I did.”
“Under a pseudonym?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“All to recreate our first meeting?”
Zahra’s smile turned sheepish. “That part I didn’t plan.”
“Oh, so you just improvised the entire conversation?”
“Impressed?”
“With you? Always,” I said. “But if not for the reenactment, why did you book me?”
"I’ve been trying to reach you,” she replied softly, all the glee disappearing, replaced with worry. “You look terrible, Oliver.”
"Professional hazard." I shrugged. "The date-for-rent business demands I maintain a certain aesthetic standard."
Zahra laughed. God, I could live a thousand lifetimes and never tire of that sound. It was soft and genuine, though it still carried a note of concern.
“Would you still love to sit with me even though I tricked you into meeting me?” Zahra asked.
"For as long as you’re willing to sit with me," I said, signaling the waitress over to order Zahra a coffee and a plate of sugar cookies.
"I was afraid you’d see me and walk away," she admitted once the waitress was gone. "That voice message you left me…"
I nodded, unable to form words as conflicting emotions battled for dominance.
Relief at seeing her.
Hope—dangerous, unwelcome hope—that she was here for reasons beyond concern or closure.
And the loudest of them all—fear. Because the painstaking, undeniable truth was that my worth to her had diminished, and I had no right to wish for more than closure.
Zahra sat, her movements careful, as if approaching a wounded animal. Perhaps that's what I was. Wounded. Dangerous. Unpredictable even to myself.
“You haven't answered any of my calls."
My reflex was to say I was busy, but that was a lie. Zahra deserved better than more lies.
"I haven't been answering anyone," I admitted, the truth easier than I expected. "Not you, not Emmet, not Tobias."
"Why?" Her question was gentle but direct.
I stared at my coffee, buying time as I searched for words that wouldn't sound pathetic.
"Because I don't know what to say, how to put what’s going on inside my brain and my heart and my entire fucking body into words.
Because I left you that voicemail to set you free from all these impossible burdens that are weighing me down.
Because..." I looked up, meeting her eyes.
"Because you disarm me in the most beautiful and dangerous way possible, and it terrifies me. "
The raw confession hung in the air between us.
I hadn't meant to be so honest, so exposed, but something about Zahra had always stripped away my defenses, leaving me bare in ways that defied all my careful rules. I’d spent so long fighting it, burying them under decade-old slights and forged animosity, that it became easy to forget.
She reached across the table, her fingers stopping just short of mine. "I've never wanted to be a burden to you, Oliver."
"You're not," I said quickly, closing the distance to cover her hand with mine. Warmth climbed up my arm instantly, creeping into my chest. "That's not what I meant. It's me—all the walls I built that you somehow walk through like they're not even there."
"Is that such a bad thing?" she asked, her voice soft. Not accusing, not defensive, just curious.
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "It is when those walls are the only thing holding me together."
Her eyes held mine, unwavering. "What are you so afraid I'll see?"
"Everything," I admitted. "All the ways I’m not enough. All the ways I've failed you."
She tilted her head slightly. "What do you mean?"