6. Chance Encounter
T he plastic grocery bag digs into my palm.
It’s not heavy—just a sandwich, some chips, and a bottle of tea I’m not even thirsty for—yet I shift it again anyway.
I’ve got two pools left today and plenty of time to make it to them, but I’m still lingering outside Publix like I’m waiting for something.
Maybe I am. Or perhaps I’m just avoiding something.
A warm breeze stirs the air as I lean on the fountain’s ledge in the center of Ansley Mall’s open courtyard.
It carries the scent of sun-warmed concrete, cigarette smoke, and espresso wafting from the Starbucks patio beside the bookstore.
People flow past me: gym rats, lunch-hour office types, retirees power-walking with fanny packs and mirrored sunglasses.
The world is busy, distracted, and normal. Most of the world, anyway.
It’s been two days since The Anvil. Two days since I let myself be cornered and handled like a body with no name. Since I shoved a stranger off me in the dark and ran through the doors like I’d just escaped a fire.
I haven’t told Mateo or Naomi yet. I haven’t said the words out loud: I searched for touch and found a threat. I keep replaying it in flashes—the hand at my jaw, the smirk, the way he said ‘pretty boy’ like I should be flattered .
I think of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips’ son, Patrick, the boy by the pool—quiet, watchful, all soft edges and stillness.
Maybe there had been want in his eyes, but it didn’t come with danger.
He didn’t push—just waited, quiet and unsure, like he needed permission.
I don’t know. Maybe it was just the moment I was in—or perhaps I’m just projecting.
But here I am, still sweating, eating my lunch alone in the middle of a busy courtyard, thinking about ghosts whose meanings I haven’t even named out loud: the lumberjack, the rich college student, one-night-stand Jack, and the old friend with his affectionate blond.
Naomi said to leave it alone. Mateo said to recheck the café.
But right now, none of it feels like a plan—just a stalling tactic.
I pick up my tea and toss the sandwich wrapper, satisfied for now, as I head back toward the lot and the two jobs left for the day.
And there he is, right in front of me, walking out of the gym doors as they swing open.
Kevin.
Stepping into the sunlight from Fitness Factory, like the universe read my thoughts and gave me what my heart wasn’t ready for, because my mind couldn’t decide.
He’s tanned and relaxed. A gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp, dressed in black slacks and an indigo-blue button-down. Polished shoes, casual posture—like someone used to looking sharp without trying. He looked different at the café—more casual. Today, he’s polished. Controlled.
I lock up as he pauses just beyond the door like he’s recalibrating—scanning the sidewalk. He spots me almost immediately .
Our eyes meet, and it’s too late to look away, unlike I did on Sunday at the café. He’s seen me, lifting one hand in an easy wave—a friendly acknowledgment—walking toward me.
My breath catches. I feel everything in my chest collapse and expand at once. Shit , I think to myself. I’m wearing my pool company’s polo and have spent half the day working out in the sun. I just ate lunch and likely have food between my teeth. Fuck!
“Daniel? Hey buddy!” His voice is easy and familiar, as if this is normal, like I didn’t vanish almost four years ago and take something with me.
“Hey,” I manage.
Kevin walks over slowly, neither hesitating nor rushing. He leaves just enough space between us, close enough to talk but not close enough to be intimate.
“Didn’t expect to run into you here,” he says, adjusting the strap of his gym bag.
“Yeah,” I say, lifting the tea. “Just grabbing lunch.” His gaze drops to it and back again. He smiles just enough to show that familiar indent near his cheek.
“You working nearby?”
“Sort of. Midtown and Buckhead today. Pool maintenance,” I say, pointing to the logo on my shirt.
He nods at what I tell him, like that makes perfect sense. “You look good.”
I swallow. “Thanks,” I say. “So do you. Working out, I see.”
Kevin’s eyes flick to the coffee shop across the courtyard, then around us as if to ensure no one is watching. His smile changes—less polite, more uncertain .
“I thought that was you outside of Corner Café on Sunday.”
My stomach drops.
“You saw me?” I ask.
He shrugs, suddenly shy. “At first, I wasn’t sure, but I guess it was.”
“And you didn’t…?”
“I didn’t know if I should.”
I nod like I understand. But I don’t. Not really. I’m too busy feeling the blood rush to my ears.
He looks down, then back at me. “I’m not saying I should’ve ignored you. I was just surprised, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I say. Saying anything else feels too much.
There’s movement all around us—cars pulling into angled spaces, a woman unlocking her bike from the rack behind me, and two friends hugging goodbye as they split off toward different shops.
The publicness of it feels raw—this casual exposure, this moment in plain sight.
The fact that anyone could walk by and see this—see me—talking to Kevin and not know that it feels like time just doubled back on itself.
More footsteps. A car horn blares. A group of guys exits the gym behind Kevin, laughing loudly, and he instinctively steps half a pace closer to me, like trying to carve out a space where we can still be alone. But he doesn’t stay there long.
“I should get going,” he says finally. “I’m already running late.”
I nod. “Yeah, me too.”
He hesitates, then asks, “You have a number?”
I shake my head before I even think. “No, not yet. ”
His face registers something—not quite disappointment or surprise—just recalculation.
“Uhm,” he says lightly as he thinks, and I hear what he’s not saying.
“You could give me your work number,” I offer. “I’ll call sometime.”
He glances over his shoulder, pulls a folded receipt from his bag, and scribbles a number in thick blue ink.
“Office,” he says. “It’s a direct line.”
I take the paper. Our hands don’t touch, but my skin warms like they did. The receipt goes into my back pocket before I can let myself look.
“Cool,” I say. “Thanks.”
He smiles once more—guarded but real. “Talk soon?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
And then he walks off, gym bag bouncing at his hip, blending back into the world that doesn’t know what just shifted.
I stand there momentarily, letting the noise return to normal, allowing the ache to settle into something quieter. I touch the receipt in my back pocket, still feeling the phantom heat of his hand.
I no longer get to pretend or wonder. Kevin’s here. He saw me. All this time, I thought I’d be the one to choose if—or when—we spoke again. But he beat me to it. Now, the silence is mine to break. The only choice left is whether I call or disappear again.