Page 67 of Lily In The Valley
“Hmm, I don’t know. They say you shouldn’t take drinks from strangers,” I said, coyly. “I don’t even know your name.”
He laughed, looking to the ground. “I’m Jordan.”
“Well Jordan, now that we’re not strangers, lead the way.” I smiled.
We slid into a booth tucked in the back, half-shielded by a warped mirror and the leafy tendrils of a pothos plant that curved like it was listening. The booth cushions were aged leather, cracked but welcoming. There was a single candle on the table between us, its flame swaying like it was unsure if it wanted to keep burning.
I didn’t plan on feeling this easy.
But once we ordered drinks–mezcal for him, citrus and vodka for me–the world outside the bar started to fade. And once the drinks came, and his leg brushed mine beneath the table, and I didn’t flinch, it was like I was watching myself play a role I hadn’t rehearsed but somehow knew all the lines.
“To beautiful not-so-strangers,” he said, raising his glass, tapping it against mine.
The alcohol went down warm. He told a story about a business deal he had coming up and how he couldn’t wait to stop dealing with people hunting for bargains. I laughed when he attempted to make jokes. Leaned in when he flirted.
“Stressed?” Jordan asked after a pause, voice gentler now.
“What makes you say that?”
“You just sighed like you hold the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
I smiled, but my chest tightened. He watched me for a beat, then offered his hand across the table. I didn’t take it, but I didn’t look away.
“I’ve been talking all night. What do you do?”
“I’m a doctor. Pediatrician.”
“Wow. What brings you to Seattle?”
“A fellowship for my specialty.”
“That sounds exciting.” He continued talking but I half-listened as he told me about his travels across the world. Jordan didn’t ask questions I couldn’t answer. Jordan didn’t try to dissect the shadows under my eyes. He just let me be what I was without naming it. I needed that.
After the second round of drinks, we walked through Capitol Hill, past the streetcar tracks, through a blur of fog and faint music coming from someone’s open apartment window. The mist painted everything soft and shiny, like the world was trying to romanticize my breakdown.
“You ever feel like you’re watching yourself from the outside?” I asked suddenly as we passed under a crooked streetlamp.
He looked at me, surprised. “How so?”
I turned my face toward the light. “Like you’re smiling and nodding and saying all the right things…but you’re somewhere else entirely.”
He nodded slowly. “No. I can’t say that I have.”
I wanted to cry. I didn’t. Instead, I kissed him. Not dramatically. Not passionately. Just enough. A test. His lips were warm. Gentle. No rush. No hunger. Just confirmation that I was still real. Still reachable. That I could want something, even if I didn’t understand why. We didn’t speak as he pulled up the rideshare app on his phone. I gave him my address. He didn’t ask if I meant for him to follow, just got in the car behind me. When we got to my building, I didn’t look back. Just led the way from the elevators to my door, key trembling in the lock.
My apartment was dark except for the streetlights bleeding through the blinds. My wine glass from earlier still sat on the counter. I didn’t care. I set my purse down. Turned around. Looked at him, still standing in the doorway.
“You sure?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
But what I meant was: I need to feel something other than this ache.
We didn’t rush. We didn’t talk much. There was kissing. Some slow undoing. But it wasn’t about lust. It damn sure wasn’t about love. It was about erasure. About quieting the memory of my mother’s death. About smothering the echo of Khalil’s voice in my chest. About surviving the night with someone who didn’t know the whole story and wouldn’t try to fix it.
Afterward, I curled into my side of the bed, facing the window. Jordan lay beside me but didn’t press. Didn’t pull. When he fell asleep, I stared at the ceiling. I grabbed my phone and opened Khalil’s messages.
Big Head
