I was reaching for a bag of honey crisp apples when my shoulder seized. A lingering reminder of that night when Victoria had held me down. The bag was on the highest shelf, just beyond my fingertips, and I felt that familiar spike of panic when my body couldn’t do something simple.
Here, let me help with that.
The voice was soft, careful not to startle. A man about my age, with gentle brown eyes and paint stained fingers, reached past me to grab the apple bag. He handed it to me like it was something precious, not just 2 lb of fruit.
“Thank you,” I managed, surprised by how normal my voice sounded.
Those are the best ones, he said, nodding toward my apples. Sweet, but with just enough tartness. Good choice, Lucas worked with his hands. I learned this slowly over weeks of Saturday morning encounters at adjacent produce stands. He restored old furniture, bringing discarded pieces back to life with patience and skill. There was something beautiful about that concept, though I wasn’t ready to examine why it appealed to me so deeply.
He never pushed for more than our brief conversations about seasonal vegetables and weather patterns. Never asked for my number or suggested meeting elsewhere. Just existed in my peripheral vision. A steady presence who made the farmers market feel safer somehow.
The invitation to coffee came from me 3 months later when I finally worked up the courage. Would you like to grab coffee sometime? Not here, I mean somewhere with actual chairs.
His smile was sunshine breaking through clouds. I’d like that very much.
Our first coffee date lasted 4 hours. We talked about books and travel dreams in the way morning light looked different in autumn. Lucas had traveled through Southeast Asia after college, teaching English in small villages where children chase chickens through dusty streets.
I told him about my job as a graphic designer, how I’d always loved creating beautiful things from nothing. He didn’t ask why I seemed nervous when the barista dropped a ceramic mug, the crash echoing through the cafe like a gunshot. Didn’t comment when I chose the seat facing the door, needing to see everyone who entered. Just continued our conversation about his latest restoration project, a 1920s armwire he’d found at an estate sale.
The second date was at a quiet bookstore cafe surrounded by towering shelves and the comforting smell of old pages. Lucas brought me a small succulent in a handpainted pot. “For your window sill,” he said simply. “They’re hard to kill, which I figured might be a selling point.”
I laughed for the first time in months. Really laughed. Not the polite social sounds I’d been making. The plants sat on my bedroom window sill for weeks. Proof that something could thrive under my care.
By our third date, I’d started to trust the quiet spaces between us. We were walking through Riverside Park, the same park where everything would later unravel, though I didn’t know that yet. Lucas had been telling me about his childhood dog, a golden retriever named Buster, who could catch frisbes like an Olympic athlete.
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