Second Chances

“Cole?” she calls, her shoes clicking against the dirty pavement as she quickens her pace. The man ahead of her continues to walk down the crowded sidewalk, shuffling through the maze of other bodies. An opaque coffee cup in hand and a gleaming, black briefcase, he looks like he’s going to work or something of a similar nature. 

Looking down at the silver watch strapped to her left wrist, she reads the time: 8:53. If he is going to work, then he’s most definitely late. For a moment she hesitates, as though an angel is perched on one of her shoulders and a devil on the other. Cole’s going to work - he’s busy. But she also hasn’t seen him in forever, since the golden days spent at Ivywood High School. And she’s been unable to find him on social media - spending countless nights looking at the glowing screen of her phone, searching through hundreds of Facebook profiles. 

Cole is a common name, she knows that. But she also knows that it’s 2021, and if someone doesn’t want to be found on the internet, they can make sure of that. 

“Cole!” she yells again, her voice louder and more forceful, successfully carrying over the other noises of New York City - talking, cars honking, yelling - and he turns around alertedly. She follows the path he’s made - a trail consisting of twisting and turning around other people - and eventually makes her way to him. He’s frozen in place and looking at her - awaiting her to explain why the hell she’s stopped him in the busiest city of the world - as if he’s been magically transformed into an extravagant ice sculpture or his shoes have been glued to the pavement. 

His jaw is covered with stubbly facial hair the color of chestnut wood, his hair in countless tight curls. Maybe he’s finally stopped using 3-in-1 shampoo. Took long enough, she thinks to herself as she takes in his appearance. The Cole stood before her, clad in a professional suit matched with a pair of shiny dress shoes, is unfamiliar to her, almost like a stranger - despite the fact that they were extremely close in their younger years. 

A lot has changed since then - but they somehow both managed to escape the hauntingly tiny town of Calchester and move to New York.

“Hi Cole! How are you, how’ve you been?” 

He looks down at her - there’s still a dramatic height difference despite the gap of missing years - raising his left eyebrow curiously as the corner of his mouth slightly turns up. “D-Do I know you?” 

“What?” Her voice is evidently full of hurt and her head turns to the side in swirling confusion; her heart drops, falling into the deep pit of her stomach with a trembling ache. Doesn’t he remember her? 

Someone in a rush behind her bumps into her, their shoulders colliding and sending her stumbling a few inches forward, and her two-inch-heel scrapes against the rocky sidewalk. Full of anger she turns her head to the culprit, but the person has already passed. After living in New York for two years already she should know the nature of its residents, but that doesn’t stop her eyes from skimming the crowd. 

Cole takes this as a cue to end the conversation, looking around and twisting his left wrist to check the time. “Look, I’m already late for work. Can we talk another time?”

She isn’t stupid, she knows his words are code word for: I’m late for work and this is a dull conversation. Let’s end it.

He turns to leave, but she puts her hand on his shoulder before he can even take his foot off the ground - earning a frustrated sigh from him as he swivels around once more. “Wait! I’m Astrid. Jones. Astrid Jones.”

Slightly nodding, he repeats her name, “Astrid.” His hazel eyes glance at her outstretched hand and he clumsily transfers the coffee cup from his right hand to his left before sliding his free hand against hers in a handshake. His hand radiates heat - maybe it’s from holding the drink. Or maybe it’s the flame of Astrid’s old crush on him resurging.

“I know, it’s a. . . unique name. People have always teased me about it, especially in high school.” Astrid offers, returning her hand to the side of her thigh after a few beats. Especially you. Cole loved to tease her about her interesting name at any given opportunity. 

He gives her a small smile. “I think it’s pretty. Anyways, I’m Cole. Cole Goodman.”

Astrid’s heart lurches and she takes a leap of faith.“It’s nice to meet you! I know you’ll probably be busy today, but. . .” she fumbles around in her purse for a moment, before pulling out a scrap of paper and a pen, “can we talk another time, maybe?” 

When he mutters “Sure,” she begins to scribble down her phone number messily. It takes a few clicks of the pen to get the ink flowing onto the white paper, but she’s able to complete the task. And sloppily at that - the ink runs down two of the digits. But she ignores it with a shrug of her shoulders: it’s better than nothing. 

She outstretches her hand again, offering the small slip of paper. Cole accepts it, peering at it for a moment before putting it into the pocket of his trousers. 

“Thanks.” Cole says, turning his head in the direction of where his workplace surely is. “I’ve got to get going right now but. . . I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Sounds good. Bye!” she returns with a small smile, watching him disappear in the crowd of bodies on the sidewalk. Like a magic trick, he disappears within a few seconds.

That’s New York for you. It’s a good place for hiding secrets.

Astrid’s small office fills with the obnoxious ringing of her cellphone. Jumping a bit at the noise in her creaky computer chair, she searches her purse for the source of the disruption after tearing her eyes away from the computer. 

Chapstick, gum, sunglasses. Multiple irrelevant items are littered in her purse, complicating the task on hand. Eventually she finds her phone, though, and swipes the pad of her index finger against the small screen to accept the incoming call. When she does so, the end of her long, tapered, and varnished-blue nail clicks against the screen.

Unknown number. Despite the anonymity of the caller, she presses the phone against her ear and waits for the line to connect. 

“Hello?”

“Hi,” the voice says. “This is Cole - Cole Goodman. From earlier today?”

“Oh, hi! It’s nice to talk to you.” Astrid gets up from her spot, beginning to pace around the small room. Several large and modern windows showcase the view below of Manhattan - which is still busy as ever, despite the fact it’s nearing 5:30 now. “And. . . you know, find out that you didn’t just throw away the note.”

Cole heartily chuckles at this before teasing, “No, I didn’t. I thought about it, though.”

“You didn’t,” Astrid jokingly gasps into the phone. “But seriously, what’s up?”

“I was thinking. . . do you want to go out later tonight? Like have drinks at my place?”

A moment of silence passes by as she considers this offer. She knows he’s safe and not a serial killer. But he doesn’t know that she knows this, and how many years have passed since they’ve last seen each other? Cole wouldn’t know.

“Sure! What time were you thinking?” Astrid turns around, looking at the calendar hung up over her small desk, “I’m about to get off of work.”

“Whatever works for you is fine, I’m already at home,” he replies, adding, “a client cancelled.”

Astrid makes a mental note of this - of Cole’s job. “I could get there in. . . twenty minutes, probably. It depends on the subway.” He gives her his apartment’s address before they exchange see-you-soon’s and end the call. 

After a long day of work - more like of sitting at the computer, truthfully, as she’s spent the majority of the eight hours browsing online shopping sites - a burst of energy makes her clean the tiny office. Picking up her scattered belongings - her jacket strewn on the desk chair, her phone, and purse - she exits the room before waving goodbye to her coworkers. 

The descent from the seventh floor of the building to the first is a long one, the steel elevator moving so slowly that it would probably be faster for Astrid to take the stairs. But despite the growing anticipation growing in her chest, she’s in no rush to meet with Cole and reintroduce herself to the man she’d spent her highschool years crushing on. Her body burns with a new sense of nervousness, a feeling she hasn’t been blessed with since years ago.

A small part of her is almost glad he doesn’t remember her, considering all of their angsty and embarrassment-filled days of juvenile acne and pining. They’re both grown now, she thinks, mature. At the very least he’s mature, working a busy job that requires him to dress in an expensive suit. She can’t say the same - not with her outfit consisting of a faux-leather jacket she found on sale at Macy’s, a lacy gray cami, and a black mini skirt that rises on her thigh with even the smallest of movements. 

Aware of her clothing now, she awkwardly pulls down the skirt to readjust it before glancing at the small screen in the elevator: Level 2. Almost there, back into the life of the boy - now a man, she reminds herself - who’s now an unfamiliar stranger to her. 

“Cameron!” Astrid smiles, bowing underneath his extended arm and stepping into his apartment. He shuts the door behind her - twisting the knob so as to lock it - before following her into it. 

“What a nice apartment you have!” She awes, walking around the living room in a circle, her eyes admiring the furniture within the apartment. Books are lined in a tall bookcase, a dusty globe sat on top of the coffee table. Intelligent. 

Cameron shrugs. “It’s nothing much, just simple: exactly what I like.”

She nods at him, wringing her fingers before adjusting the position of her purse’s strap on her shoulder. 

He watches her for a moment, before the realization hits him. “Oh,” he says, walking closer to her and gesturing to the leather couch, “would you like to sit? I can get the drinks.”

“Sure,” she murmurs, delicately sitting on the couch and placing her purse next to her. The leather is smooth against her leg, and she sits back against the cushion. 

Cameron walks into the kitchen, a small room that has an open wall facing the living room. Its purpose is to make serving drinks or courses easier, but at the moment the two of them are using it to maintain both their conversation and eye contact. 

“A glass of wine okay? Let’s see-” he rummages through the alcohol cabinet, the sounds of numerous bottles clink, clink, clinking together. “I have red wine or white...”

“Red’s okay with me,” Astrid replies, looking at him pour each of them a glassful of the alcohol. His arm muscles bulge through his fitted gray t-shirt - he’s changed out of the suit into a much more casual, and presumably comfortable, outfit - and with much effort she tears her eyes after a moment. “So, what do you do for work?”

“Business executive. When I’m not directing the marketing field of the company, I actually meet with clients throughout the day. Easy stuff, really: like discussing financial plans, stuff like that.”

“Interesting!” she says, watching him enter the living room once more, carrying two glasses of red wine, and sit down on the couch beside her. The liquid is cold against her fingertips when Cameron gives her a glass, and it sloshes against the glass from the movement. 

His knees graze against hers and he lifts up his glass, cheering, “To new beginnings!”

Her dark-berry-colored lips curve into a smile at this, and she repeats, “To new beginnings!” When the glass is tipped back, the wine spills onto her tongue and down her throat. It’s bitter, she thinks - but then again all she ever drinks is the wine on sale at the nearest corner store. 

As her taste buds are engulfed in the deep flavors, she thinks about Cameron’s toast. “To new beginnings” he’d said. But in reality, it was much, much more complicated than that. To new beginnings? No.

More like second chances.