Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Maya
The man rounds the bar with the kind of confidence that either comes from deep comfort in his own skin or years of practice. Maybe both. He’s not swaggering. There’s no arrogance to it. Just ease.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
“Sure,” I say, gesturing to it with the tip of my pencil. “But only if you’re prepared to give me an honest critique of my sketch. Don’t hold back to spare my feelings.”
He chuckles and sits down, eyeing my sketchbook. “You drawing the boats?”
I flip the page casually. The fantastical harbor kingdom is still half-formed, the spires and sails blending into creatures with wings and long, twisting tails. “Sort of.”
“What’s your story?” he asks. “You look like someone deep in thought, not just drawing for fun.”
And just like that, something sparks in me. That old instinct I’ve had since college. The tiny thrill of slipping into a version of myself that isn’t bound by deadlines or flares or the dull ache behind my knees.
“I’m Sofia. I’m a traveler,” I say, smoothing out my sundress and sitting up straighter. “Spent the summer touring Europe. Mostly the big cities—Barcelona, Florence, Prague. But I got tired of the crowds and the noise, so I came here to recharge before I head to Istanbul for a wedding.”
His eyebrows rise just slightly. “World traveler, huh?”
I nod solemnly, tapping the eraser end of my pencil against the table. “Art by day, pasta and wine by night. You know the deal.”
“That sounds incredible.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m an astronaut.”
That makes me laugh, loud enough that the bartender glances over.
“Really?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Outer space?”
“Yep. Just got back from a six-month mission on the ISS.”
I tilt my head and smirk. “Is that so?”
“Is what you said true?” he counters, smirking slightly.
Touché.
I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Do I look like a world traveler?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets his gaze sweep over me—slowly, not sleazily. My silver seashell earrings. The strappy sundress I bought at a consignment shop last week. The fading henna stain I got at an outdoor art festival still ghosting the inside of my wrist.
“You do,” he says finally. “You look like someone who bought those earrings in Marseilles. And that dress? Definitely from an open-air market in southern Italy. Amalfi, maybe.”
It’s silly. Ridiculous. But the way he says it, warm and straight-faced, makes my chest flutter a little.
“Not bad, astronaut,” I say.
“I do my research,” he replies.
I glance back down at my sketchbook, flipping absently through the pages. “So, how’d you get into astronautics?” I ask, grinning to let him know I’m still in character.
He smiles too—but then something shifts. Not much, just a flicker of genuine interest lighting his expression.
“Well,” he begins, voice a little quieter, “when I was a kid, I’d lie on the roof of our garage and look at the stars. I used to think the Big Dipper was a spaceship that broke apart mid-flight. That’s when I started getting into physics. Black holes, relativity, all that.”
Now I’m curious. Because the way his face softens, how he leans forward just slightly as he speaks, it’s obvious—this part is real.
“So, what do you actually do?” I ask.
He hesitates for a moment, like he’s enjoying our little game of make believe as much as I am. “I really am a scientist,” he says with a nonchalant shrug.
We end up in a long, weirdly passionate conversation about sci-fi movies—Interstellar, Arrival, The Martian. He’s shocked I haven’t seen Moon. I’m shocked he doesn’t love Annihilation. We debate the physics in Gravity and agree the aliens in Contact were disappointingly vague.
I lose track of time. At some point we split a pizza with roasted garlic and burrata, and when the bartender brings a second bottle of wine to the table, I don’t object. My sketchbook is forgotten.
“So,” he says as we’re draining the last of the wine, “do you always pretend to be a world traveler when guys sit down at your table?”
I shrug, watching how the golden light cuts across his jaw. “Not always. But sometimes. It’s fun. You get to be someone else for a while.”
He considers that. “What’s your real name?”
“Maya.”
“Zachary,” he says, offering his hand across the table.
I take it, our fingers curling together a second longer than they need to.
“Maya,” he repeats, like he’s testing the sound of it. “You don’t need an alter ego. You’re interesting enough on your own.”
That’s sweet, I think. And dangerous.
Because this? This is the kind of thing I have rules against.
When I moved up here, I made a promise to myself: no relationships.
No entanglements. Just freedom. Just fun.
My ex, Sam Kendall, taught me how quickly affection can sour into something suffocating.
How someone saying they love you can turn into them watching you like a hawk, treating your body like it’s their fragile, failing responsibility. Like you’re a burden. A liability.
Sam didn’t want me, not really. He wanted to care for the idea of me. He wanted to be the hero in someone else’s story.
I’m not doing that again.
So now, every so often, I meet a guy. I take him home. We enjoy each other for a night, and I don’t mention the medication in my drawer or the bruises on my thighs from last week’s blood tests. I don’t mention the flares or the days I can’t hold a pencil because my fingers are too swollen.
Those nights—fleeting, easy, shallow—are their own kind of medicine. A reminder that I’m still desirable. Still alive. Still more than a diagnosis.
And Zachary?
Well, he’d be a perfect entry in the “hot stranger at the bar” file.
“You want to come back to my place?” I ask casually, tipping my wine glass toward him. “I’m ten minutes away. I’ve got air conditioning and better wine.”
Zachary pauses, his gaze fixed on me in that calm, steady way he’s had all evening. I wait for the usual response—some flirtatious banter, maybe a teasing “lead the way.”
Instead, he leans back slightly and says, “No, thanks.”
I blink. It’s not rude, not sharp. Just… sincere.
I laugh once, quick and disbelieving. “Wait—really?”
He nods. “Really.”
I shift in my seat. “Are you—what, married? In a complicated relationship? Secretly a priest?”
“No.” His smile is patient. “Nothing like that.”
“Then… why?”
Zachary tilts his head. “You seem great. You’re smart and interesting and… fun to talk to. But I’ve done the casual thing and it’s not really for me anymore. I’m not judging—I just know myself.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Even though we’re strangers, his rejection stings. I do respect his choice, though. I glance down at my sketchbook and close it gently, tucking my pencil inside the spiral binding.
I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Fair enough.”
Zachary doesn’t press. He doesn’t offer anything else. He just gives me that quiet, thoughtful look, like maybe he sees more than I meant to show.
I reach for my wine, finishing what’s left in a single, unbothered sip. But something inside me feels…unsettled.
And just like that, the night takes a turn.