Page 114 of Oliver
I'd sat back in the chair and stared at the screen for a full minute, waiting for something—relief, dread, anything—to rise. But all I felt was the usual numbness.
Still, I confirmed the booking, laid out my clothes, and went to bed at a decent hour, though I barely slept.
Now, standing outside the café, I painted on the expression I'd perfected over the years—charming, attentive, utterly untouchable.
It didn't matter what was underneath. It never had.
There were only two constants left in my life: Stars died, and I performed.
I walked into the café, the bell above the door announcing my arrival. The barista nodded in recognition. I wondered briefly ifshe remembered the countless regulars who passed through, or if something about my visits had made an impression.
I chose a table in the corner, angled to see the door, and ordered a black coffee. Katherine Reynolds's profile had been sparse—thirty-five, professional, new to Foxy's. The sort of booking I'd have looked forward to a few months ago. A simple exchange with clear parameters and low emotional risk.
The door chimed again. I glanced up automatically.
Some guy wearing a striped shirt and a beret walked in, a pointy goatee decorating his chin and a Salvador Dali moustache curling above his lip.
“Tell me no one understands your artistic vision without telling me no one understands your artistic vision,” I muttered under my breath.
Zahra would have loved that one.
I'd been deliberately avoiding thoughts of Zahra, compartmentalizing her into a locked corner of my mind. But being here, in this café, made it nearly impossible. Her ghost lingered at every table, her laugh echoed in the ambient chatter, her scent seemed to mingle with the coffee aroma.
I checked my watch. 8:23 AM. Still early.
The door chimed again.
This time, I didn't look up. I stirred my coffee, watching the tiny whirlpool form and dissipate. A minute passed, then another. I kept my eyes down, maintaining the illusion of casual distraction while replaying every micro-moment of my and Zahra’s first meeting here.
"Oliver?"
That voice.
My head snapped up, coffee forgotten, as time stretched and compressed around me.
Zahra stood before me, looking as sharp and professional as always. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail,her makeup done to delicate and natural-looking perfection. She wore jeans and a silky green blouse—casual, understated, beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
I blinked, certain I was hallucinating. “Zahra.” I heard the tremor in my voice and forced myself to center.
Structure. Order. Control.
I had constructed my life around those principles like they were universal constants—precise equations that I believed would keep me safely on trajectory. But what I thought were immutable laws that would shield me turned out to be a decaying path spiraling directly into a star's corona. The very principles I’d trusted to protect me had plotted my inevitable collision course.
Zahra smiled, waiting, rocking on her heels as the silence stretched between us. Then she tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
“May I join you?”
I was up on my feet and pulling her chair out before the word “yes” had left my mouth.
Zahra giggled softly and thanked me as she took her seat.
“I'm actually waiting for someone," I said, hoping Zahra won’t feel flustered and leave. “She should be here in about five minutes, but until then, I’d love to sit with you.”
A bright smile lit her face, but I noticed the amusement that ghosted through her eyes. "I'm curious who you’re waiting for."
You.
"Katherine." The name felt strange on my tongue now, confronted with the very real presence of Zahra. “It’s a RAD thing, not a real date,” I hurried to explain.
