Chapter 3
The event was a joint effort between several mental health clinics, the city, and a few large donors. Their names were stamped across everything from the T-shirts to the care packages to the plastic water bottles.
A few minutes before the start of the race, a family rushed up to my table.
“Schumer,” the dad said, breathless, guiding his two teenage daughters to the stand.
I handed them waivers to sign and gave quick instructions.
One of the girls, her curls bouncing around her shoulders, asked, “Is there a bathroom?”
“London, are you for real?” The dad groaned. “I asked you guys at the house, and you said no.”
“Porta Potties,” I said, pointing toward the long line of bright blue plastic units.
“Eww.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I know,” I agreed.
“All right, go,” her dad said, motioning toward the start line. “We’ll wait there.”
The girl took off running as the rest of her family thanked me and moved along.
I had turned back to my table and was rearranging a stack of care packages when a burst of deep, carefree laughter drew my attention.
A group of well-dressed men stood close to the refreshment tent.
They looked like the kind of men who hadn’t lost sleep over a bill in years.
Khakis pressed, sunglasses tucked neatly into expensive pink and yellow polos, and brand-new leather moccasins, like they’d just come from brunch on the marina.
Wealth had a look, and this was it: confident postures and smiles full of ownership over the space around them.
The men were older, except for one. He was probably in his early thirties, about six feet tall, with short, neatly kept brown hair and a presence that drew your attention without his having to say a word.
He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not the glossy, model type, but there was something undeniably attractive about him.
His bearing conveyed a quiet confidence.
He was the kind of man who never had to raise his voice to be heard. Natural charm. Lived-in and effortless.
He looked right at me. Eyes curious. Focused.
I looked away quickly, busying myself with organizing the registration forms and pulling more water bottles from the box beside me.
“Hey.”
A voice snapped me out of my sorting. I looked up.
It was him. The man from the group.
“Oh, hey. You might want to change quickly,” I said. “The race starts in two minutes.”
“I’m not running,” he said, almost amused.
“Oh.”
Neither of us said anything. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but my silence probably read that way.
“I’m one of the donors,” he said, nodding toward the water bottle in my hand. “Winthrop.”
I looked down at the bottle. His last name, Winthrop, was stamped across it in bold black lettering. It was bigger than the race logo. Bigger than everything else.
“I see,” I said. I wasn’t trying to be weird, but I didn’t understand why he was at my table, talking to me.
“Do you . . . have a question about the race?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said.
Right then, the start signal blared, a horn echoing through the air. Cheers and applause erupted all around us. We clapped along, though I couldn’t help but wonder what he wanted.
It wasn’t like he was here for me. I wasn’t the kind of woman who attracted men like that.
I didn’t really attract anyone. My world was work, volunteering, reading, and spending every free minute with my rescue African grey, Mochi.
Paying for his bird daycare while I was at work nearly wiped me out.
It was like daycare for a human baby, just with more feathers.
Of course, I felt lonely sometimes and dreamed of being loved by someone who didn’t screech when he got pissed at me. It was just . . . I wasn’t anyone’s first choice. Not pretty. Not ugly. Just invisible.
Early thirties. Brown hair. My eyes were the only thing that people complimented me on.
They were bright green. But eyes alone don’t get you stopped in a parking lot or picked up at the grocery store.
I wasn’t bubbly or charming. Definitely not funny.
Just the quiet girl people sometimes forgot was even there.
I avoided bars and online dating like they were contagious.
But I was honest. I’d give my last granola bar to someone even if I were starving too. Loyal to the core. And life had made me resilient. Kind. Strong.
Still, those weren’t traits people were exactly lining up for.
“I was wondering,” he said, breaking the silence, “if there’s a good coffee place around here?”
My shoulders relaxed slightly. At least now I knew why he stayed.
“We have coffee over there.” I pointed toward the refreshment tent.
“I think they’re out. And I wouldn’t call that coffee.” He grinned.
I smiled awkwardly. “There’s a good spot on Tremont. I forget the name, but there’s a giant coffee bean statue in front of it.”
He nodded. “Would . . . you like to join me?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“For coffee,” he clarified. “Would you like to join me?”
It sounded just as unreal the second time. So I just stood there, stunned.
One time, a patient at the clinic had asked me out. So had Jim, our four-foot-tall IT guy. But this?
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the man said quickly. “I’m Daniel.” He held out his hand.
His eyes dropped to my neck, taking in the long, ragged scar. My face flushed, and I instinctively tugged the collar higher before taking his hand.
“E-Emily.”
He smiled, warm and open. His short brown hair ruffled in the breeze. “You feel like grabbing a coffee?”
I gently pulled my hand back. “I-I’m sorry. But I have to stay at the registration table. There’s no one else to cover it.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nodded, respectful. “Maybe another time?”
My palms were starting to sweat. Was he asking for my number?
“Or what about after your shift?”
I glanced at the group of older men, clearly waiting for him. But Daniel Winthrop didn’t seem to care one bit.
“Umm . . .” I hesitated.
“Oh—I’m sorry,” he said. “You probably don’t even know when the race wraps up.”
I shook my head. I really didn’t. It could be early, could be late afternoon, depending on the cleanup. There was no official end time.
“Well, thank you for the coffee shop recommendation.”
He smiled and left.
I watched him chat with the group of men, shake a few hands, and then head off toward Tremont.
A young woman rushed up to the stand, clearly flustered.
“Damn it, is it too late for the race?”
“It already started.”
“Shit,” she muttered. She looked genuinely disappointed.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, grabbing one of the last bibs. “Take this and just go. I’ll sign you in later.”
Her face lit up. “Oh my God, thank you!”
She took off, and I folded some of the T-shirts that had been tossed back into the box. Laughter from the group of men drifted over again. Low and relaxed.
I grabbed the last working pen and wrote the date on the sign-in sheets, but the ink sputtered out. So I jogged over to the refreshment tent and borrowed another pen.
When I returned to my stand, I froze.
Daniel was back.
He stood there with two trays of drinks and a large brown paper bag. I blinked, stunned, as I stepped behind the table again.
“I”—his eyes dropped to the trays—“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a little bit of everything. Coffee, tea, and lemonade.”
Still speechless, I watched as he opened the bag.
“I also grabbed a chocolate chip cookie, a cinnamon bun, and a breakfast sandwich. Just in case you’re more into salty snacks than sweet ones.”
He pushed the bag toward me and nudged one of the trays closer.
“Do you like your coffee black? Pumpkin spiced? Or are you a tea girl?”
His gaze flicked briefly to the scar on my neck again. I reached up to cover it with my collar. He didn’t say a word, just gently passed several cups to me.
“I’d really love to learn more about the mental health marathon,” he said, his voice steady, like this kind of interaction was normal for him. “And how my company can support more events like this.”
“Oh,” I said again. Apparently, it was my favorite word today. But what else was I supposed to say? My brain was still trying to catch up.
He walked around the table and motioned to the empty folding chair next to me. “Do you mind?”
I shook my head.
With a nod, he sat down.
“I’m not sure I’m the right person to tell you about the marathon,” I said quickly. “Our clinic’s CEO—”
“Nah.” He waved it off like it was nothing. “I’d rather hear from the people actually doing the work. CEOs don’t work. Not really.” He smiled and took a sip of his coffee. Everything about him seemed effortless. Grounded. Like he never second-guessed his life like I did.
Meanwhile, I moved through life as if I needed to apologize for my existence.
“I think I saw you this morning,” he said, lifting a brow. “You were dragging two giant mastiffs off the road, right? I pulled up just as you stepped onto the sidewalk. That was you, wasn’t it?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. That was wild. I was so scared.”
“You didn’t look scared,” he said, shaking his head. “You just dragged them off the road, huh? All five feet of you. Like it was nothing. While the rest of the crowd just stared.”
A laugh escaped me, small and nervous. “Trust me, I was terrified. My hands were shaking so badly, I almost couldn’t drive afterward.”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes searching mine—not in a judging way, but like he was trying to figure out how that kind of courage fit inside someone so small.
“I love animals,” I said, shrugging.
“No kidding. Are you from around here?”
“Yes. You?”
“Born and raised.”
A short silence settled between us. Not awkward. Just quiet.
“So, what do you do?” he asked.
“Umm . . . I like to read. I’m really into Roman history. There’s something about ancient Rome that fascinates me. I also walk along the waterfront a lot. The water always calms me. And—”
His grin caught me off guard.
“What?” I asked nervously.
“I’ve never heard anyone answer that question like that before,” he said, still smiling.
Then it clicked.
“Oh. You meant for work. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said, laughing. “You’re actually onto something. Why do we always assume it’s about work when we get asked what we do? We do things other than work, right? And work shouldn’t be the most important thing in life.”
His words warmed me a little. I smiled, feeling almost . . . seen.
“I work as an admin at Coastal Community Mental Health,” I said.
“You must be good with numbers then.” He nudged the pastry bag toward me.
I didn’t really feel like eating, but I took a cookie to be polite.
“Do you still have family around here?” he asked.
A small shake of my head preceded my answer. “No. It’s just me.”
“Oh—God, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice dropping into that tone people use when they think you’ve lost someone. “I lost my parents as a kid. I know what it’s like to lose people.”
My throat tightened. I chewed and swallowed quickly. “Oh, no, sorry for the confusion. My parents are still alive. We just don’t . . .”
Heat bloomed across my face. What was I supposed to say next? Tell him about my alcoholic father? My enabling mother? Or worse, my uncle? For a moment, I felt like it was written all over me in neon: white trash. No matter that I had a BA in accounting.
“We just don’t talk,” I finished softly, hoping he wouldn’t ask more. “But I’m really sorry about your parents. In some ways, it feels like mine are dead too.”
Our eyes met. His expression was unreadable but not cold. His gaze briefly dropped to my neck again.
“Yeah,” he said. “Having no family is one of the hardest things anyone can go through.”
We sat in silence for a while, watching the runners and slowly sipping our drinks. The cookie sat half-eaten in my hand.
Eventually, he checked his watch—gold, sleek, and probably worth more than my car.
“Shoot. I have to go,” he said.
Of course he did. I stood up with him.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said.
“Same here.”
He didn’t leave. Not immediately.
“We didn’t get to talk about the mental health awareness events,” he said. “Could we meet up again?” He pulled out his phone and held it toward me, screen open to a blank contact.
I stared at it like it wasn’t real.
“I’d love to hear more about ways my company can give back to the community,” he said.
“S-sure,” I said, finally, and typed in my number.
His smile lit up his whole face. “Great. I’ll text you.”
Then he turned and walked away, every movement smooth and confident. Before disappearing into the crowd, he glanced back over his shoulder and waved.
My hand lifted in a quick wave as the first runners reached the finish line to a swell of cheers.
Deep down, I already knew: Daniel Winthrop wouldn’t call.
Whatever that was, whatever had just happened, meant nothing and would lead nowhere.
Men like him didn’t end up with women like me. Not for casual encounters and not for friendly meetings to talk about charity events.
Maybe I’d stand a chance in a world where different qualities mattered more than looks or money.
But life didn’t work like that.