Page 33 of Thankful for My Orc
“Now we mix them up and see what fate has in store for us.” I swirl the bowl gently, watching twenty small pieces of paper dance around each other. “Want to do the honors?”
Jordan reaches toward the bowl, then pauses, her hand hovering over the edge. “Actually, wait. This feels too clinical. Too…” She gestures vaguely at the ceramic bowl. “Too much like picking names for jury duty.”
I follow her gaze as she scans the coffee shop, clearly looking for something with more personality. Her eyes land on something behind me, and a slow grin spreads across her face.
“Oh, that’s perfect.” She points to a cardboard box near the entrance labeled “LOST & FOUND” in cheerful hand lettering. “Look what’s sitting right on top.”
I turn to see a well-worn Dodgers hat perched on a pile of forgotten scarves and single gloves. The hat has clearly seen better days—the blue fabric is faded, the brim is slightly curved from wear, and a sweat mark rims the inside of the crown.
“You want to put our future romantic activities in someone’s sweaty baseball cap?”
“It’s authentic!” She’s already standing, gathering our paper strips with newfound enthusiasm. “Come on, it’s perfect. Some random Dodgers fan accidentally created the vessel for our dating destiny.”
“That hat smells like stadium nachos and regret, Jordan. I can smell it from here. Orcs have superhuman olfactory abilities.”
“Whatever.” She casually waves a hand as though she doesn’t think I’m telling the truth about being able to smell her from a block away. “It has character. Stories to tell.” She’s walking toward the lost and found box now, and I’m helplessly following, charmed despite myself by her sudden whimsy.
When we reach the box, she picks up the hat with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length like it might bite her. Her nose wrinkles slightly.
“We can go back to the bowl now if you want,” I offer.
“Absolutely not. We’ve come too far. We’re committed.” She peers inside the crown, then jerks her head back. “Okay, this is gross—but if we can survive choosing our first date from this questionable piece of headwear, we can survive anything.”
She holds the hat open like an offering bowl, nose wrinkling. “You hold it open, I’ll dump them in.”
She empties our folded papers into the hat, where they scatter among what I hope are just lint particles and not something more biological. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever done, or evidence that we’re both having some kind of breakdown.”
“One does not preclude the other,” she says in her most lawyerly voice.
I swirl the hat gently, the papers rustling against the worn fabric.
“Okay, Forge, moment of truth. You pick.”
“Me? This hat was your idea.”
“And I’m delegating the actual selection to you. I draw the line at putting my hand inside someone else’s head sweat.”
I hand the hat back to Jordan, and she holds the hat steady. Our fingers brush when I reach in. It’s barely contact—just the backs of my knuckles grazing hers for half a second—but the touch shoots electricity up my arm. Her breath catches, and when our gazes meet over the disgusting baseball cap, I see my own reaction mirrored in her face. Neither of us acknowledges it, but we both know something just shifted.
Her pulse jumps, and mine echoes it. For one impossible second, the whole world narrows to the warmth of her skin and the scent of roasted coffee on her breath. If fate wanted proof this is more than a game, it just got it.
I force myself to get back on task, and when I unfold the slip of paper, I can’t help but grin.
“‘Taco truck crawl,’” I read. “‘Find the best birria tacos within a one-mile radius.’”
Birria. Slow-braised meat steeped in chili and spices until it falls apart, stuffed into tortillas, and dunked in its own rich broth. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.
“That’s mine.” Jordan claps her hands together, momentarily forgetting about the gross factor. “I wanted us to do something food-related. I may not be able to cook, but I have very strong opinions about tacos.”
“Saturday afternoon? We can start in East L.A. and work our way toward wherever the search takes us.”
“Yes, absolutely yes.” She sets the cap on the table, then immediately searches her purse for hand sanitizer. “I can’t believe I just did that. I touched someone’s hat sweat for you.”
“I’m honored. Literally honored by your sacrifice.”
“Don’t get used to it. Next time we’re using a clean container.” She squirts sanitizer into her palm, then offers me some. “I know it was my gross idea, and I appreciate you going along with it, but you have to admit, there’s something poetic about choosing our first real date from a piece of sports memorabilia that’s probably witnessed more human drama than a Telenovela.”
“We need to give the date ideas a place to live,” I say. “Operation Date Rescue.”
