Chapter 15 Vincent
VINCENT
The bathroom mirror in this place has a vertical crack running dead center, splitting my face into two identical but slightly misaligned losers.
I splash water on my face, twice, then three times, like the third rinse might reset the last twenty-four hours. It doesn’t.
I towel off with something that used to be a hand towel but is now a scientific sample in mildew research, then stare at my reflection for a full minute, long enough that the real me starts to dissolve and the only thing left is the composite image, the good-for-nothing, the benchwarmer, the guy who couldn’t hold onto the only thing that ever made him feel necessary.
I pop a pimple on my cheek.
It doesn’t bleed, which is a miracle.
The patchy stubble situation is not improving, no matter how many podcasts swear that biotin is the answer.
Tonight’s the night. The date with Vincent.
Not a date, I remind myself. Just two sad grownups hanging out and pretending they aren't each other's rebound.
Besides, we were never official.
That's what I keep telling myself. We never said the words, never made it real. He told me to go explore.
This is me exploring.. The invitation was simple, “You free tonight? 9pm. Woodbury.” The Woodbury is one of those bars that tries to look like a dive but the drinks cost as much as an MRI and the food menu is all ironic.
I hate it, but I said yes, because the only thing more humiliating than the last twenty-four hours would be sitting at home, watching my phone not light up.
I stare into the sink, then brush my teeth with the cheap blue stuff that tastes like disappointment and childhood.
I try not to look at my phone, but it’s there, face up on the edge of the sink, the lock screen still Darius and I standing in front of the Pike Place gum wall, making the dumbest faces possible because the city was so gross that day and it was the only thing that made him smile.
I think about changing it, but it feels like deleting a dead relative. So I let it be.
I put on deodorant, twice, then trade my current shirt for one that has fewer visible sweat stains. Button-up, light gray.
I try to iron it, realize I haven’t owned an iron since sophomore year, then go with the “if I keep my jacket on no one will see” logic that’s never once worked.
I look like I’m interviewing for a job I’m grossly underqualified for, which is perfect because that’s what tonight is.
Outside the bathroom, the apartment is the usual war zone.
Hockey gear in two of the four corners-pads drying on a chair, sticks balanced on the heater like they’re trying to thaw out after a near-death experience. Kitchen is a joke.
Two Chinese takeout boxes, one emptied and one still leaking sweet-and-sour sauce from the top.
There’s a pizza box on the counter, three slices left, all of them glued together by congealed cheese and some kind of existential resignation.
On the nightstand in the bedroom, the book Darius gave me. Borges.
The bookmark is a Seattle Storm ticket stub. I almost pick it up, almost bring it with me, but then I remember how he handed it to me with that look, the one that said “I remembered because I wanted to, not because I had to,” and it’s too much.
I leave it there, daring myself to get through the night without thinking about the guy who just broke my heart into regulation-sized pieces.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it, then immediately check anyway. Just a Tinder notification, “You have a new match!” Like the universe is desperate to prove I’m not doomed to die alone.
I open the app, swipe through a few faces, none of them memorable, all of them a thousand times less compelling than the one face I’m actually thinking about.
There’s a message from some girl named Clara, who says “I love hockey too!!” with a dozen exclamation points. I don’t even remember swiping on her. I imagine the conversation. It dies in my head, quietly, before it even begins.
I swipe over to Grindr, scroll the grid, recognize at least three torsos from the gym and one from last week’s scrimmage.
There’s a message from “HotBarista” who is neither hot nor, judging by the spelling, a barista. I consider replying, then don’t.
I hover over the messages app, thumb hovering for a full minute over Darius’s name.
My last message is “You sure you’re ok?” sent after he bailed on our morning run. The reply was “All good,” which is Darius-speak for “I am bleeding out but don’t want to make a mess on the carpet.”
I start to type, then erase. I do this three more times. At one point I write “If you ever want to talk…” but I can’t finish it, so I delete it and toss the phone onto the bed. It bounces, lands face down, and I let it lie.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, and try to summon the version of myself who could go on a date with a stranger and not spend the whole time dissecting every molecule of what went wrong with the last one.
I think about what I’ll say if Vincent asks about the team, or the season, or the “girlfriend situation.” I rehearse the answers out loud: “It was mutual.” “She’s great, just not great for me.” “It’s been a weird year.” None of them sound like me. Maybe that’s the point.
I check the time. 8:43. I have seventeen minutes to get to Belltown, which is possible only if every Uber driver in the city is suddenly motivated by divine intervention.
I throw on the jacket, finger comb my hair, and pull the front door shut behind me, not bothering to lock it because who the hell would want to steal anything from my life.
The elevator smells like weed and cheap perfume, which means the college couple on three-oh-six is fighting again.
I stand with my back to the mirror, counting the seconds, watching the numbers light up with painful slowness. On the way down, I consider texting Darius again.
I don’t.
Outside, the air is cold enough that my lungs seize up, but it wakes me. I walk the first block to the light rail because it feels like punishment, then give up and call a car anyway.
The driver is chatty, wants to know if I’m going to a party or a date. I say, “Just meeting a friend.” He laughs, says, “Hope she’s hot.” I smile like it’s funny, but it feels like biting on tinfoil.
At Woodbury, the line is out the door, so I wedge myself in the corner by the bus stop and try not to look like I’m waiting for a rescue chopper.
I check my phone again. No new notifications.
I type out, “Hope you have a good night,” to Darius. I stare at it, then delete the whole thing, letter by letter, like it was never there.
The phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Vincent: “Running five late. Get a table if you can.” I respond, “Cool. I’ll try.” Then I sit on the curb, knees bouncing, and try to convince myself that this is what normal people do. This is what moving on looks like.
I’m not convinced. But I’ll fake it as long as I have to.
When Vincent finally shows up, he’s even more put-together than at the rink.
Slim fit shirt, the kind of watch you can’t buy unless you’ve maxed out your student loans and then some, hair styled so perfectly it looks like it has its own publicist.
I stand, brush invisible dirt off my jeans, and try to remember what confidence feels like.
He spots me right away, waves, and cuts through the crowd with zero hesitation. His handshake is firm, businesslike, and the first thing he says is, “Hope you’re a whiskey guy. They have the best in the city.”
I lie and say I am. We fight through the crowd and get a table in the back, right under the sign that says, “NO BAD VIBES,” which is a cosmic joke if there ever was one.
Vincent orders for both of us, doesn’t even ask what I want.
It’s a power move, and I’m kind of impressed, if only because it’s the polar opposite of every interaction I’ve ever had with Darius, who used to ask what I wanted and then order two, just in case.
I wonder if that’s what normal looks like. I wonder if I’ll ever know.
The first round is smooth, smoky, goes down like fire.
I cough, Vincent laughs, and the conversation is off to the races. He asks about the game, about the team, about “what it’s like to be the underdog who wins.” He listens, really listens, but it’s the kind of listening that feels transactional, like he’s mentally taping the whole thing for later.
He laughs at my jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny, but his eyes never leave mine for more than a second. It’s intense, but I like it. Or I tell myself I do.
Every so often, his hand lands on my arm, light but deliberate, a touch that says “I want you,” or at least “I want this story.” I pretend not to notice, but my skin catalogs every contact, adds it to the running total of reasons I should let myself want this.
We talk hockey, talk Seattle, talk family.
I mention my sister, how she’s the only one who ever understood what it meant to live with perpetual second place, and Vincent just nods, absorbing. He tells me about his own family, about the pressure, about the “relentless need to win.”
I recognize the hunger, even if his is sharper, less wounded.
By the third round, I’m not even pretending to check my phone. I don’t care if Darius is thinking about me.
I don’t care if he’s already moved on. I don’t care if I never see him again, because Vincent is here, right now, and he wants me. Or something that looks a lot like me.
At some point, Vincent says, “You want to get out of here?” and it’s not really a question.
I say yes. Because why not.
Because Darius told me to.
Because I need to believe that normal is possible.
Because I’m tired of being the ghost in someone else’s story.
Vincent pays the bill, tips absurdly, and steers me out into the freezing Seattle air. He’s already unlocked his car, a black Subaru that’s cleaner than anything I’ve ever owned, and he leans in, hand braced on the roof, face inches from mine.
“Is this weird?” he says, and he’s not asking for permission, just cataloging the moment for reference.
I shake my head. “No. It’s… good.”