The Chicago River is neon green.
The skies have cleared over Chicago, and the sun sparkles on the river, making it resemble a Willy Wonka–esque candy-colored ribbon running smack-dab through the middle of the city.
“There is nothing like St. Patrick’s Day in the city of Chicago,” Holly says.
She is standing on the bridge wearing a bright green wig that matches the river, her face dotted with shamrocks, doing a live broadcast—part beauty tips, party city history—on social media.
“This unique tradition began in 1961 when Stephen Bailey, a business manager of the Chicago Journeymen Plumbers Local Union, witnessed a plumber who was wearing coveralls, which had originally been white, stained ‘Irish’ green from the fluorescent dye that was used to detect leaks in pipes and pollution in the river,” Holly says. “Bailey thought it would be a great idea to dye the river green for St. Patrick’s Day and so the tradition was born in 1962 when one hundred pounds of dye was poured in the river and the river remained green for a week. Over the next few years, they experimented with the amount and type of dye used before perfecting the process. Today the river is dyed with forty pounds of environmentally friendly dye, which, thankfully, keeps the river green only for a few hours so we Chicagoans aren’t reminded of our post– St. Patrick’s Day hangovers the next week.”
Noah puts his arm around my back as Holly continues to broadcast.
“Nervous?”
He is wearing a green turtleneck that matches his eyes.
I nod. “You?”
“Yep,” he says. “It’s hard putting myself out there. I’ve never...”
He stops.
“Fallen in love?” I ask.
“No, I’ve fallen plenty of times.” Noah stares out at the river. “No one’s ever fallen back. I’ve never been loved.”
“You are so loved,” I argue.
“You know what I mean.”
I look at the throng of revelers clogging downtown Chicago. A great many are out for the day looking to have fun and blow off some steam. But many are couples holding hands, laughing together, taking photos, holding on tightly to one another.
Everything fades so quickly, I think. How do we make these memories last forever?
I have a vivid memory of my father cutting the lawn in Michigan, an emerald green swath. I was lying in a hammock strung between two sugar maples, the dappled sun warming me, and I remember how green the world was: the leaves, the grass, the bushes, the canopy of undergrowth in the woods. Michigan was green! My father spun the lawnmower at the end of the yard, scanning the lawn before him, ensuring he was following the lines and wouldn’t leave a long strip of unmown grass. His eyes matched the Michigan sky: as blue as the world around me. He saw me watching him and waved. I lifted my hand off the book I was reading and waved. I was just a little girl and it was just a tiny wave to my dad, and yet I remember I’d never felt safer in my whole life. In fact, that was one of the last moments I recall feeling so protected from the world’s unrelenting winter.
As if reading my mind, Noah slips an arm around my waist, and I ease into the silhouette of his body and sigh.
Holly turns the camera on Noah and me.
“I’m out celebrating St. Patty’s with my dear friends, Noah and Susan,” she says. “Smile, guys!”
We turn and wave into the camera. The green river sparkles behind us.
“It’s going to be a lucky day for these two,” Holly continues. “You all know about Susan, the Single Kringle, right?”
“Gee, thanks for that great introduction,” I say.
“Well, Noah is also going out on a date today with a possible beau, and I want you all to send the luck of the Irish to them as they get ready to find love.”
“No pressure at all, diva,” Noah says with a laugh.
“I’ll bring you an update on their dates tomorrow,” Holly says, “but for now, I’m sending you loads of four-leaf clovers, and we’re off to drink a big, green beer!”
Holly blows kisses into her cell, ends her live feed, collapses her selfie stick, and touches me and Noah on our heads with it as if she’s anointing us.
“The first thing we need to do is join all these lunatics by finding the closest green beer, dancing in an Irish bar and then getting you ready for your dates.” Holly looks at me. “And I do mean that plural, though not necessarily in that order, especially considering that you both have dates today.”
As if on cue, I feel my cell vibrate. I look at the screen and hold it up to Holly and Noah to show them the caller ID: Jamie.
“May the road rise up to meet ya!” Noah says.
I look at him.
“I didn’t know what to say. Seemed fitting.”
“Hi, Jamie. How are you?”
“I’m good. Happy St. Patty’s Day.”
“You, too.”
“I just saw Holly’s live feed. I know bachelor number two is lined up next, and I have to admit that I’m not sending you the luck of the Irish tonight.”
I laugh.
“I was kind of hoping I might be able to see you, live and in-person again, maybe for coffee tomorrow.”
I cover my cell and mouth, He wants to have coffee tomorrow.
They both pantomime clap.
“Sure. Just text me where and when in the morning. I do have to get back to Petoskey by midafternoon, though.”
“Sounds good,” he says. “I miss you.”
He misses me, I mouth.
He’s the only one, Noah mouths back.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Don’t have fun tonight.”
I laugh and hang up.
Holly taps me on the head again with her selfie stick.
“Queen!” Noah says.
We all hold hands and then head into a sea of green.
I wake with a start.
My cell is blurting that awful robotic alarm clock beep every second, the one that reminds you that you have to be at the airport at three thirty in the morning, or that, like now, you overslept and have only a short time to get ready for an important meeting.
I sit up, shut it off and then shake my head at my Pink Ladies.
In this case, we’re more like the Three Stooges.
We all passed out in Holly’s bed. Noah is in the middle, snoring, and Holly is on the far right, still in her green wig. She is drooling. I can’t help myself. I take a video of them with my cell and then yell, “Wake up, sleepyheads!”
The two sit straight up in bed.
“Drool much?” I ask Holly.
She looks at her pillow.
“Delete it. Now.”
I press Play.
“Snore much?” I ask Noah.
“Oh, my gosh,” Holly says. “How could we sleep through that? It sounds like the world is being cut in half with a chainsaw.”
“Diva,” Noah says, his voice rising. “I think most people would rather date someone who snores rather than someone who might drown them in their sleep.”
“Really, Rip van Winkle? Because you sound like you should be starring in Jurassic Park.”
“A little social media payback,” I say with a laugh. “We have about forty-five minutes to get ready. We overslept.”
Holly yelps and leaps out of bed. “Why did we think we could have a second green beer at eleven in the morning? We’re not in our twenties anymore.”
“Um, I am,” Noah says.
“Shut up,” Holly says with a laugh. She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs, reaches over and slugs the water sitting on her nightstand. “Let’s roll, dream team.”
We scurry around Holly’s condo, a large, open loft featuring exposed brick walls and old wood beams. Much like my Victorian, Holly’s condo is a mix of old and new: state-of-the-art stainless appliances, a coffee bar, custom bath, mammoth windows overlooking the city and yet her wood plank floors still have the original square nails.
A half hour, one shower and two big glasses of water later, I feel woozily better. The short turnaround has given me less time to fret.
“My hair is not cooperating!” I hear Noah yell from the bathroom.
I stop at the windows, knowing I have a few moments to gather myself, and look at the city of Chicago sparkling before me. There is a magic to the city—a beauty in the anonymity, the wealth of shops and restaurants—but I’ve always been a small town girl at heart. Holly loves to live as large as Lake Michigan, but I prefer to exist as a bay, tucking myself into the shores of my community.
“Remember our first apartment?”
Holly laughs.
“How could I forget?”
After graduating from college, Holly and I rented a garden apartment in the city. “Garden apartment” is a charming way to say renovated basement below grade. We had our lives all planned out: first, we would go into magazine publishing in Chicago, get some experience and then move to New York and go into book publishing. Our apartment was located a block from an L platform, and our tiny living room—big enough to hold a sofa that also served as our dining room—had a long, narrow window just above the sidewalk. All day and all night long, Holly and I would watch thousands of pairs of feet pass before our eyes. In fact, we became so obsessed with them that we began to make up stories about the people attached to the different shoes—vintage Converse, red-soled Louboutins, worn navy flats. In fact, when we would walk around the neighborhood, Holly and I would stare at the ground, searching shoes.
“Floral Doc Martens?” Holly suddenly asks.
“The girl who worked at Windy City Floral.”
“Yes!” Holly says.
“Shiny black penny loafers?” I ask. “With shiny pennies in them?”
“The guy who ran the newspaper stand on LaSalle,” Holly says. “Look how far we’ve come.”
“It would be frightening if we saw shoes up here,” I say. I turn and look at my friend. “It’s like we’ve always seen, pardon the bad foot pun, into each other’s souls. We’ve always been the perfect balance. I know I got mad at you—and the Pink Ladies, my grandparents, pretty much all of Chicago and Petoskey—but thank you for pushing me to do this...for pushing me out into the world again. After what happened to my grampa, I think I would have retreated again.” I hesitate. “Maybe for the last time. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but at least I—we—gave it a shot.”
She opens her arms. We hug in the silence.
“And this place doesn’t vibrate from the L going by every few minutes,” I say into her shoulder. I hold her at arm’s length. “So this is what it’s like to date a lot.”
“No, this is what it’s like to date some quality men,” she says. “There’s a big difference.”
“Do you ever get tired of serial dating?”
Her eyes are as soft as the evening clouds hovering over the city. “No, I actually enjoy it. I love meeting new people. I love the thought of falling in love. But, right now, I love my life, friends and family even more. My business is booming. I just want to sort of ride that wave. I made it. I made it in a field where few succeed, just like you. We’re female entrepreneurs! I want to see how this part of my story unfolds first.”
“My hair!” Noah yells again. “Help please!”
“I’ll be right back,” Holly says.
“Does this color make me look jaundiced?” Noah asks, hair crisis averted, as he stares into the doors of the elevator. “Or like I have scurvy?”
“I think you’ve had quite enough vitamin C this year,” I say.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Noah says to me, making fun of the fact that I am wearing a scarf pinned over my hair.
Noah is wearing a black turtleneck with a Burberry vintage check scarf and black peacoat.
“You look very dapper,” Holly says. “Try to keep your nerves in check.”
Noah looks at her with big eyes. “You’re still wearing sweats and get to go home, eat a Giordano’s deep dish pizza and watch Legally Blonde. Our lives are on the line here.”
Holly stifles a smile as the elevator doors open.
We head onto the street.
“It’s brisk,” Holly says, zipping up her puffy coat and tossing the hood on her Bears sweatshirt out the back.
Brisk is the friendly word Chicagoans and Michiganians use when the windchill slaps you right in the face, pickpockets your internal organs and howls, “Who’s your mama?”
They don’t call Chicago the Windy City for nothing.
Although Chicago and Michigan are separated by a great lake, many think the weather is largely the same, but there is a great divide. On the other side of the lake, Michigan receives much more snow, typically of the lake-effect kind. Since the frigid north wind travels southward over relatively warmer lake waters, Michigan’s west and northern coasts are often on the receiving end of Mother Nature’s snowblower. When it’s not snowing, the days are typically overcast, albeit relatively mild due to the “banana belt” effect along the coastline, where the lake helps to keep the surrounding area a bit more temperate, especially when compared to Chicago.
Chicago, of course, receives its own fair share of snow, but there are more sunny days as well as many more frigid ones due to the wind that rotates off the lake. In the spring, fall and winter, I have chased down more hats here than I have cabs.
Noah stops in front of the window of a cute candle shop. His face registers complete horror when he sees his hair. His curly locks are blowing this way and that as if he’s standing directly in front of an airplane that’s about to take off.
“Why don’t you call me grandma again now?” I ask.
Noah hunches over and puts his hands around his head, and races ahead of us, zipping left and right, trying to avoid pedestrians and the wind, as if that will do any good. From a distance, he resembles a malfunctioning Roomba.
“So, tell me about my date again just so I’m clear,” I say.
“His name is Micah Harrison,” Holly says as if she’s a hostess on a dating show. “He’s forty-one, a big runner—natch!—an attorney, he answered all the questions correctly, matches the physical stats of your Santa and said he talked to a Mrs. Claus before the race.”
Thankfully, the restaurant Holly booked is only a couple of blocks from her condo. River North is jammed with restaurants and bars, but getting reservations to the hottest spots can take months. Holly, however, knows everyone in Chicago, and she’s often invited to their soft and grand openings to spread the word in her inimitable way.
We stop in front of an old brownstone on a much quieter neighborhood street. An indiscreet sign reads Mi Madre.
“This is one of the newest, hippest spots in the area,” Holly says. “It used to be a popular pop-up. The chef has taken favorites recipes from her childhood—ones her mother and grandmothers made in the US and Mexico—and updated them. You’ll love the menu. It’s not stuffy, and it’s full of reinvented comfort foods. Jasmine is the hostess. She already knows you two will be across the restaurant from one another.”
Noah gives me a hand signal, and I laugh.
“No, diva,” he says. “I’m trying to take off that scarf. If you wear that inside and order potpie, not only will your date run, but I’ll be forced to leave as well.”
I remove my scarf and place it in my purse. My fingers touch the angel pin I’ve sneaked inside it.
“You have that look again,” Holly says. “Just be yourself, the Susan everyone adores.”
She turns to Noah.
“And the same goes for you, young man.” Holly adjusts his scarf and then twirls his curls this way and that. “Remember, Fred already likes you. Don’t try too hard.”
“I’m nervous,” Noah starts.
“Just be you,” Holly says.
“All of me?” he asks.
“Yes, just let him see your inner light,” Holly says. “It’s bright enough to light the world.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Noah says, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “And thank you for walking us to our dates. Save a slice of pizza for me because I probably won’t eat much. I don’t want to bloat in the middle of this date.”
Noah turns to me and points.
“And the bread basket is not your friend, got it?” he says.
Holly gives me a hug.
“Good luck,” she says.
As we head up the stairs and into the restaurant, I can hear Holly say, “My little ones are growing up so fast.”
“Hi, Jasmine?” I say to the hostess.
“Yes.”
“We’re Holly’s friends,” I say. “I’m Susan, and this is Noah, and we had reservations at seven.”
“I’ve heard all about you!” Jasmine says in a husky whisper. “It’s so sweet you’re both looking for love. We’re honored to be a part of that connection.”
She takes our coats.
“Right this way.”
Mi Madre has retained all of the beauty of the original brownstone, with the gorgeous moldings and flooring. A fireplace crackles in the center of the room. Plush booths in dark velvet fill the corners and line the walls of the restaurant, and tables dot the remaining space. The lower level has all been opened up, however, and only a long pony wall with a floating window separates the open kitchen.
“The chef loves for guests to watch her work,” Jasmine explains. She leads us to a booth, but stops me as I begin to sit. “This is for Noah and his guest.”
“Ooh, I love a booth,” Noah says, sliding onto the seat.
“Enjoy,” Jasmine says.
She takes me to a table in the very center of the room. I look around.
“Holly wanted you to be the center of attention tonight.”
“Of course she did,” I say with a smile and raised brow.
“You can see all the action from here,” Jasmine says.
“Thank you. Um, Jasmine, could I ask you for a favor?”
She cocks her head, curious. “Of course.”
I reach into my purse and hand her the angel pin. “Would you mind bringing this to my table when we’re about to leave?”
Jasmine runs her hand over the pin. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It was my mother’s. And it’s a test. If my date knows what this is, then he’s really the one.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
I shrug.
“I’ll bring it over when I see the waiter bring the check.”
“I really appreciate it.”
Jasmine starts to walk away, but stops and turns back to me.
“You know,” she says, “I was always a terrible test taker. Everything was geared for students who were able to memorize and regurgitate information. I was never that way. I was more of a visual learner. Sometimes a student fails a test not because they aren’t capable or worthy of passing but because the test is flawed. One size does not always fit all.”
Her not-so-subtle message flitters through my brain.
I take a seat and fidget with my napkin. A handsome man walks up to the hostess, and my heart leaps. Jasmine leads him into the restaurant, and as they get closer, I realize the man is Fred. I sit up. He is dressed in a dark suit, beautiful shoes and an emerald green turtleneck that fits his perfect body like a fitted glove. He looks like a movie star. He sees me and waves. At the booth, Noah stands and extends his hand. I can see it shaking from across the room. Fred cocks his head, opens his arms and gives Noah a big hug.
I watch the two settle into the booth next to one another and wait. After a few minutes, the waiter approaches and asks if I would like something to drink.
“I’ll wait for my...” I stop. “Date.”
Another server brings over a basket of bread, which smells just like the homemade bread my grandma makes.
“We have some honey butter as well as some herbed butter,” he says.
As soon as I lift the napkin covering the bread, my cell trills.
NO, DIVA!
I look over, and Noah is giving me the shamey finger.
I dramatically re-cover the bread, and Noah sends me a gif of an audience giving a standing ovation. I am laughing when I hear, “Susan?”
I stand too quickly, my long legs hitting the table. Water cascades over the edge of my glass.
“You can call me Grace,” I joke.
“Micah Harrison. I’m so, so sorry I’m late. I tried to find parking, which was impossible. The line for the valet was very long. And I’m out of excuses now.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Please. Have a seat.”
Jasmine backs away, mouthing, He’s cute!
My cell trills again.
He’s cute!
He is.
Micah looks like an updated version of a Mad Men actor. He is wearing a suit, his black hair is slicked back, and his light-colored eyes resemble a snowy sky. He’s tall, old-school handsome, a black-and-white movie star sprung to life.
“This place has gotten loads of buzz,” Micah says. “I can’t believe you got reservations here. Thank you.”
“It was all Holly,” I say. “As you know, she’s a force of nature.”
He laughs. “She is. And I’m thankful for that because it brought us together.” He stops. “Again. You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” I say. “How was your day?”
“I had to work, unfortunately,” Micah says. “I’m a sports attorney, so there is no off-season for me.”
“That sounds fascinating,” I say. “Anyone I would know?”
“Everyone you would know,” he says. “Seen a Bears, Cubs, Bulls or Blackhawks game? All of them.”
I laugh. “You must work 24/7.”
“I work a lot, but I’ve made an intention this year—not a resolution but an intention—to find a better balance.” The waiter comes, goes over the wine and cocktail menu, and Micah asks if I like red wine. I nod, and he orders a bottle of Pinot Noir from Sonoma. “I can’t believe they have it. It’s wonderful. I hope you like it.”
“I had a green beer before noon,” I say. “Anything would be an improvement.”
He laughs, hard. “You’re...” He hesitates.
“Say it.”
“...everything Holly said you would be. Natural. Real. Funny. Everything you seemed to be at the Santa Run. I’m not used to that.”
This time, I laugh, even harder. “What are you used to, I’m scared to ask?”
“Mostly people—in both my work and personal life—who compensate for any insecurity or nervousness with attitude.”
My heart feels as if it’s taking flight. “I appreciate that. Especially your honesty.”
Our wine comes. The waiter uncorks it, pours a taste for Micah. He swirls it, sniffs it, aerates it and, finally, sips. “Perfection.”
The waiter pours two glasses.
“Cheers!” Micah says.
“Cheers!” I sip. “Wow, this is good.”
“To good wine and a great date!”
“Well,” I say. “You know an awful lot about me...like the world...tell me a little about yourself. Where you grew up? Why you dress as Santa? All that good stuff.”
Micah smiles. “Ah, the world of social media,” I say. “I tell my clients to watch every move when they’re in public, and—irony of ironies—I end up meeting you this way. Well, where to start?”
Micah takes a sip of his wine and continues. “Probably the best place to start is that I was born and raised in Michigan.”
“What? Really? Holly kept that a surprise. Where?”
“I was born and raised in Glenn. Know where that is?”
“I do.”
I raise my hand, as all Michiganians do, and hold it out to Micah, palm forward. I point to the tip of my ring finger. “I live here, and you live here,” I say, moving my finger down my hand to the outside of my palm. “I love to visit that area. Saugatuck and Douglas are so quaint.”
“Exactly,” Micah says. He reaches out and touches my palm with his finger. “Ironically, I grew up right where your love line ends.”
My palm suddenly feels as if it’s on fire, and I blush.
“Well, did you know that Glenn is known as ‘The Pancake Town’?”
I shake my head. “No clue.”
“It was back in the ’30s, a massive blizzard hit Michigan, and hundreds of motorists were stranded in Glenn when the roads became impassable,” Micah says. “Stranded motorists filled the town’s restaurant, the schoolhouse, church, and then residents started taking cold travelers into their homes. There were so many visitors in need of food and shelter, Glenn’s stores ran out of supplies. But, almost everyone had the ingredients necessary to make pancakes. For the next three days, the entire community rallied to feed stranded travelers griddlecakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That’s how the town got its nickname, and we still hold pancake breakfasts and parades through the year to carry on the tradition.”
“Is there a Pancake Queen?”
“Does Michigan love a festival?”
I laugh. “We celebrate everything, don’t we? Blueberries, cherries, Yetis and pancakes.” I stop. “So, you said ‘we’...we still hold pancake breakfasts. Do you still have a connection there? How did your family come to Glenn? Do they still live there?”
“If you can believe it, my grandfather was one of the people stranded in Glenn,” Micah says. “He was a truck driver, and he was hauling a mile-high load of Christmas trees from Michigan to Chicago. He so fell in love with the kindness of the community that he pulled the biggest tree from his truck and had the entire town gather to decorate it as a remembrance of how we can all pull together. A kid put a Santa cap on him. There’s still an old photo of him by the tree with the community framed in one of the pancake restaurants. He moved my nana there, and that’s where they started their family. My parents never left either.”
“And you?”
“I love it there. My dad was the local attorney, but there wasn’t, unfortunately, a lot of opportunity for me. But I still go back every holiday season, put on a Santa outfit with my dad and re-create the photo my papa took so long ago,” Micah says. “Ironically, I was on my way to Glenn after the Santa Run in Chicago. The Pancake Festival was the next day. In the middle of the run, I got a call from a client demanding a trade. It was the front page of every sports page in America. That’s why I never made it to O’Malley’s. I called them, but...”
“It was a zoo,” I finish. “A zoo of Santas.”
Micah nods. “After we talked about our love of Christmas, and the history of Mrs. Claus, I felt such a connection, almost a lightning strike, as if we were meant to meet. But I had no idea what your name was until that Single Kringle post went viral. It felt like lightning struck again.”
My heart beats rapidly.
Is he the one? The Kris to my Kringle?
The waiter returns, and I order the lobster potpie, and Micah orders Mi Madre’s Meatloaf. The food emits a feeling that you’re sitting in your grandma’s kitchen eating her home cooking...if grandma had gone to culinary school.
In the middle of our meal, the chef pops by our table to introduce herself.
“How are your dinners? I hope you like them.”
“Like them?” I say. “If I could eat my plate, I would.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I just wanted to say hello. Holly informed me of how you two met, and I’m honored to be a part of your special evening.”
For dessert, the chef sends over two pieces of Hoosier Sugar Cream Pie, a recipe the waiter says her grandmother learned at a church potluck, and a pie my own grandma still makes.
“My grandma calls this ‘finger pie’ because she mixes the ingredients in the crust with her finger,” I say. I look at Micah. “That’s how the Norcrosses roll.”
“Well, this is delicious,” he says. “And I know I’d be licking my fingers if I made it.”
We finish our wine, and talk about Chicago, books, travel, and I’m so wrapped up in our conversation that I forget Noah and Fred are even here until they stop by our table. I introduce everyone.
“No need for hand signals tonight, huh?” Noah asks.
I shake my head, and spill the beans about our secret code to Micah. He laughs.
“Where are you two headed?” I ask.
“We’re going to head to a little bar near here to continue our evening,” Fred says. “Would you care to join us?”
“You boys take some time for yourselves tonight,” I say. “Enjoy.”
When they leave, I say, “He’s like my son.” I stop. “Like my sarcastic teenage son.”
“We need good friends in our lives or we’d never make it.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
We chat until the restaurant clears and the waiter brings the check. I reach politely for my purse, but Micah stops me.
“It’s the least I can do,” he says. “I know this isn’t the way anyone pictures a first date.” Micah hands the waiter his credit card. “Features in the Chicago Tribune, interviews with Extra...”
“Just another typical blind date,” I say.
We laugh.
“I had a wonderful time tonight,” he says.
“Me, too.” I take a breath. “I really did.”
Micah looks into my eyes for the longest time, and—just like with Jamie—I feel very much at home with this man.
That’s when I see Jasmine approaching.
“How was dinner?” she asks so innocently.
“Incredible,” Micah says. “I’ve found a new favorite place in town. That is, if I can get reservations without Holly’s help.”
“You can call anytime,” Jasmine says with a sweet smile. “Oh, Susan. Coat check found this on the ground. I noticed you were wearing it when you came in. It must have fallen off your coat.”
“Oh, thank you,” I say, flustered. “That means the world.”
Jasmine leaves, and my instinct is to shove the pin into my purse, to hide it, to not know Micah’s answer.
“What is that?” Micah asks.
The tables in the restaurant begin to spin, as if I’m on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland.
I place the pin on the white tablecloth. I take a deep breath, remaining quiet, so as not to sway the jury.
“What a beautiful pin,” he says. “An angel. Wow, this is one of a kind. Did you wear it here for me to see?”
The tables stop spinning.
The one.
I nod.
“You wore it for me because of how we met, didn’t you?”
I nod again.
“How sweet, Susan. I’m touched.”
My heart is doing backflips.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
My heart sinks, and I begin to blink as rapidly as a lightning bug.
“Where did you get it? Did you buy it just for tonight?”
Micah looks at me. He is still talking, but I can only hear cicadas inside my head.
“Excuse me,” is the only thing I can manage to say. “I need to head to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”
I leave him there, staring at a pin he’s never seen before.
“Idiot!” I say once I reach the bathroom.
I stare in the mirror at myself for way too long, looking not just at my image but searching for an answer lurking underneath the surface. In fact, I am touching the mirror, trying to crawl inside of my head, when I hear the door open.
“He didn’t pass the test, did he?”
I look at Jasmine in the mirror and shake my head.
“What are the odds that he would have a similar conversation with a random woman dressed as Mrs. Claus?” I ask her, my voice elevated. “It’s like the world is playing some sort of cruel joke on me. It’s not fair!”
“But do you like him?”
I nod.
“Then what does some test matter? What if all this—every moment of your life—was meant to lead you right here, right now? What if a single missed connection occurred on purpose so that your entire life could be rewired?”
“I keep asking myself the same thing,” I sigh.
“But?”
“But there’s another guy out there I met, too—a total stranger—who seemed to come into my life for a reason. He seemed not only to know me already but also to see right into my heart.”
“That’s amazing,” Jasmine says. “But couldn’t this man tonight do the same?”
“When it rains it pours,” I say.
Jasmine opens her arms, I walk into them, and she hugs me.
“Holly told me all about your parents,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry.”
She lets go, and I look at her. “I know this is a lot coming from a total stranger, but I lost my younger brother when I was just a girl, and my heart is still an open wound. I see people waltz into this restaurant every night, and I can immediately tell which ones have been hurt in their lives because—even when they say hello—they look to the side or withhold a little touch of happiness in their voices as if they’re just waiting for that pain to greet them again.”
Jasmine continues. “I saw that in you when you walked in the restaurant tonight. Just remember we only get a short journey on this earth, and each day is not only a chance to heal but also to love with all your wounded heart.”
Her words jolt me. “Thank you for sharing that, stranger.”
“We’re only strangers to one another if we choose not to connect.”
She pulls a tissue off the holder on the bathroom counter and hands it to me.
“You should see me when I watch a dog food commercial,” I say.
Jasmine laughs. “Good luck.”
I take a moment to compose myself and return to Micah. He escorts me to the door, retrieves my coat and then pins the angel onto my collar. It is a sweet, simple gesture. Micah opens the door for me, places his hand on my back as I walk down the stairs.
“I don’t want to push my luck,” he says, “but I’d love to see you again.”
“I’d like that,” I say.
Would I?
Stop it, Susan.
“I’m usually back in Chicago every few weeks,” I say. “Let me give you my number.”
Micah puts my number into his cell. The wind whips down the street, and he takes me into his arms and holds me tight. Then he takes my face in his hands and kisses me. It is as lovely and old-fashioned as he is.
“Well,” I say.
“The word that always means a date has come to an end.”
“It’s not the end,” I say, surprising myself.
“I’ll text you,” Micah says.
“How Gen Z of you,” I tease.
“No, that means I would make you follow me on TikTok. Do you want a ride? Or I can wait with you until your ride arrives.”
“I’m staying with Holly. I’ll just walk back. It’ll be quicker than a car.”
“Are you sure?” Micah asks. “It’s night. I’m worried about your safety.”
I smile at his concern. “Really, she lives just a couple of blocks away. Thank you, though. I’m a big girl. I’ll be okay. I think the walk will do me good after that dinner. Sometimes, the fresh air helps me process things, too.”
“I understand,” he says. “Just promise me you will text me when you’ve made it home so I don’t worry.”
“I promise.”
Micah gives me a big hug, and I watch him walk to the valet. As I turn to leave, I see Jasmine standing in the window. Her hands are formed in the shape of a heart. I laugh and wave goodbye and head down the street.
I turn at the corner, and the street bustles once again as Chicago continues its St. Patrick’s party. The sidewalks and streets are filled with people dressed in green attempting to walk a straight line. I juke right and left to avoid being run into or spilled on, and beeline until my shoulder is directly against the storefronts so at least one side of me is protected.
I slow when I come upon a line of people waiting to get inside a bar. I look inside. Noah and Fred are standing in the window, slow dancing with one another, looking directly into each other’s eyes as if the crazed world around them doesn’t exist.
I am thrown back in time. I am slow dancing with Kyle Trimble at McDonald’s and at my first Christmas formal before...
I scurry away from the window and, instead of heading back to Holly’s, I head toward the river. I stop and look out at the water. It is still green, but the color is fading. It is returning to normal.
Am I injecting unreal color into my life right now? Will it fade?
In this vast crowd, I am the only one alone on the street. I turn and look into the windows of condos and apartment buildings all over the city.
I think of all those who are warm, safe, coupled.
I think of all those who are warm, safe, alone.
My phone hums. An endless stream of messages suddenly appears, as if I’d lost reception and now the entire world must know where I am.
Micah: I couldn’t wait any longer. LMK you’re okay. And, I had a REALLY good time. I can’t wait to see you again.
Holly: How was it? Where are you? LMK!
Jamie: Can’t wait to see you tomorrow!
I think of chucking my phone into the river, but I remember what Jasmine said and how blessed I am to have people in my life who love and care about me.
We’re only strangers to one another if we choose not to connect.
I text everyone and then place my cell back into my purse and stand in the middle of Chicago on a brisk winter’s night watching the river—illuminated by the stars and the city lights—wink at me with a green, knowing eye.
“Hello, life!” I yell at the river, my voice filled with every ounce of happiness I can muster.
“Go home, drunk!” someone calls from across the street.