He checked his phone for the fourth time, 45 minutes. The ice in his water glass had melted into a sad, lukewarm puddle. Being a single dad meant time was the one currency he didn't have, and tonight he'd wasted it. He was just about to ask for the check when a woman slid into the empty booth opposite him. A tailored suit, silver at her temples, eyes that could freeze a boardroom.
"You're clearly available," she said. Caleb hated the smell of expensive restaurants. It was a sterile mix of bleached linen, clarified butter, and the quiet arrogance of people who didn't look at prices before ordering. He was sitting in a leather booth at Laangeerie, wearing a charcoal suit he bought for a funeral 3 years ago. The collar of his shirt was stiff, scratching against his neck.
He checked his watch. 8:15 p.m. 45 minutes. Under the table, his knee bounced with a manic rhythmic energy. It wasn't just the humiliation of being stood up. It was the math.
Back at his apartment, Mrs. Gable was sitting on his faded sofa watching television and eating his pretzels. She charged $18 an hour to watch Maya. Caleb had factored in 3 hours for this date. $54 plus the 20 he'd spent on gas plus the 70 he had mentally allocated for dinner, assuming they split an appetizer and stuck to mid-tier entrée. He was bleeding money and the chair across from him was entirely aggressively empty. His phone buzzed on the tabletop.
Grand Sarah age. Oh my god, Caleb, I am so so sorry. Work emergency. Totally lost track of time. Rain check.
Caleb stared at the screen. The screen glared back. He didn't type a reply. He just locked the phone and placed it face down on the tablecloth. A work emergency, right?
At 8:15 on a Friday night, Sarah from marketing had a sudden crisis that prevented her from sending a text 40 minutes ago. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough grit of stubble he had carefully trimmed around but failed to shave completely. He was exhausted. It was a deep marrow level exhaustion that only single parents understand. The kind where your bones feel heavy and sleep is just a brief interruption between shifts of keeping a small human alive.
A waiter materialized. He had the kind of aggressive posture masquerading as politeness that Caleb despised. Sir, are we still waiting for your guest? The waiter's eyes flicked to the empty chair. Pity thick and cloying.
"No," Caleb said, his voice flat. "Just the check for the sparkling water, please." I can box up some bread for you if you'd like. Just the check. Caleb reached for his wallet.
As he pulled it from his breast pocket, a shadow fell over the table. He assumed the waiter had returned with record speed, but the scent was different. No clarified butter. Sandalwood, sharp citrus, expensive. Keep your wallet in your pocket, a voice said.
It wasn't a request, it was an instruction. Caleb looked up. She was older, early 50s, maybe. Her hair was a striking unapologetic steel gray cut in a sharp bob that brushed the collar of a navy blue suit that probably cost more than Caleb's truck. Her face was structured, lined with the kind of wrinkles that came from decades of making difficult decisions rather than smiling at polite jokes.