“Is that why you moved?”
“Yes.” I run my finger around the rim of my coffee cup, thinking, and realize there was more to it than that. “And no.”
Michael tilts his head, eying me curiously. For some reason I feel the urge to go on.
“Have you ever just stopped to look around at your life and realized nothing is how you want it?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, and for some reason this surprises me. “So what was wrong? What did you have that you didn’t want?”
I think again, recalling that moment I sat in my old flat with my parents, taking stock of my life and feeling empty. “Nothing. I didn’t really have anything. That was the problem. I just…” I pause, wondering how much to share. Strangely, I find that I want to share more, that I feel comfortable talking to him. Maybe it’s because I read his book—because I read about some of his personal experiences. And even though it was only through a book, I feel a sort of connection to him now—like I know him, in a way. It makes me feel like I can talk to him.
I let out a long sigh. “I guess I just realized that I’m thirty—that I’ve gone through my whole twenties without taking my dreams seriously. It’s like I have nothing to show for my twenties. And now… I don’t know. I sort of feel like it’s now or never.”
He gives a slow, thoughtful nod. “I get that. I was about thirty when I finally started going after what I want, too.”
I rub my forehead. “I always thought that by thirty I would have my shit together a bit more, you know? I should have figured this out by now.”
“Says who? I’m in my forties and I still don’t feel like I have my shit together.” He gives me a kind smile. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
I gesture to his book. “Well, you’re a lot more successful than me.”
“Sure, my career is going well.” He shrugs. “But that’s not everything. It’s only one area of my life.”
I think back to the jaded man I saw on Halloween after a date, and feel a wave of sympathy. I know what he said at the time wasn’t very nice, but after reading his book I have a much greater understanding of why he felt that way.
His mouth lifts into a small smile, and for a second I think maybe he knows what I’m thinking about.
“So what were you doing, then?” I ask over my coffee. “Before you were thirty, I mean.”
“I worked in finance.”
I raise my eyebrows, the image of him in his suit flashing into my mind. No wonder that look worked so well on him. “And you didn’t enjoy it?”
“No. My folks pushed me into it, thought it was a good career. But I wanted to write. Always have.”
I breathe a disbelieving laugh. My parents might not have pushed me into finance—thank God—but they sure have their own ideas for my life that do not align with mine. And as for always wanting to write… Well. I get that too. Big time.
“So what made you decide to leave finance and write?”
He thinks for a moment, raising his cup to his lips. “Same as you. I turned thirty and took a good look at my life and realized that I didn’t want it to stay the same. I wasn’t taking my dreams seriously, either. So I started to do that.”
Warmth spreads out through my chest as I absorb his words. I’m not crazy, I realize. I’m not the only one who’s felt this way. He understands.
He sets his coffee down and fixes his attention on me. “So what are your dreams, then?”
I give him a shy smile. “To write, as well. That’s what I’m passionate about.”
“Yeah?” There’s a little spark in his eyes as they linger on my face.
“Yeah.”
He motions to my laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, just… a blog post.” For some reason I feel a bit silly, thinking about my tiny blog in the context of this conversation.
“What about?”
I glance at my laptop, hesitating. He’s a real writer, with books and everything. The last thing I want to do is tell him I write a blog about being single. It’s hardly the dream writing life we were just talking about.
“You know, er, various topics. What do you write about?” I ask, to take the spotlight off me. “I know you write books about the Appalachian Trail, but—”
“You mean terrible books about the Appalachian Trail,” he interjects, a smile peeking over his lips.
I groan. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“I’ll make a deal with you.” His eyes dance as he leans closer to me. “Tell me what you write about and I’ll forgive you for pretending you read my book.”
He’s got me backed into a corner now, but for some reason I’m reluctant to tell him. I don’t know why. It’s not like I need to impress him. And as much as I might be starting to like him, I know nothing will happen. I’m so much younger than him and he’s a successful New York writer. I don’t think he’d ever look twice at someone like me.
And what was Agnes saying? Something about how he’s not up for meeting women—something that was quite evident in his book, despite all my previous assumptions about him being a womanizer.
None of that matters, anyway. Because my twenties didn’t just teach me to take my writing seriously, they also taught me to stop believing in fairy tales. I know better than to go looking for happily ever after now, especially with someone so far out of my league.
I move my eyes over his friendly face, so different from the man I first met. He has crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, and there’s a dimple in his cheek, hiding under his dark beard. It’s adorable. My
