Chapter 11
The sandwich place sat between a nail salon and a check-cashing storefront, the sign narrow and dull in a way that felt temporary, as if it could be replaced overnight with anything else. Plastic tables bolted to the floor. A long, cardboard menu held breakfast and lunch options. The smell of burnt toast and cheap coffee hung in the air inside.
Oren came here on his lunch breaks because very few of his coworkers did. No one asked questions, and no one lingered long.
He had just sat down with his tray when the door opened. He did a double-take.
Ayara stepped inside and stopped short, the way people did when they hadn’t decided yet if they were staying or going.
Staying. Because she scurried to the order line. She wore a loose linen button-down top, sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark jeans, and flat shoes dusted at the edges.
For a second, she looked out of place, like someone from another part of his life dropped into the wrong frame. His chest tightened immediately.
For a second, he considered packing up and slipping out before she turned around. The thought surprised him with its urgency.
He was suddenly aware of himself in a way he hadn’t been a moment earlier—the stiff fabric of his work shirt. The faint grit that clung to his hands no matter how well he’d washed them. The fact that this version of him hadn’t been meant for her to see.
She must have finished ordering because now she scanned the room, her attention moving from table to table, her posture already angled toward leaving.
Their eyes locked. She smiled at him, and the thought of leaving dissolved as quickly as it had come.
She trotted toward him.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“Guess who forgot their lunch?” She gestured at the chair across from him. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah.” He shifted his tray back slightly. “Go ahead.”
She sat. The table was small enough that their knees lined up naturally beneath it. Oren noticed it and didn’t adjust. Neither did she.
“I didn’t know you worked so close to here,” she said offhandedly.
“Just down the block.” He hesitated. “I come here most days.”
The noise of the place filled the space between them, but it didn’t intrude. He felt oddly present, more aware of his hands, the way his forearms rested on the edge of the table, the way she leaned forward slightly when she took a bite, like she wasn’t thinking about how she looked.
He pulled the paper on his sandwich back a little more and frowned. “I don’t know why I ordered this.”
She smiled. “I make a decent ceviche,” she said. “If you ever want something normal.”
“That sounds better already,” he said.
She nodded slowly. He could see her fitting that into what she already knew about him, rearranging something.
“This is different,” she said, glancing around.
“Different how?”
“I’ve only ever seen you at home,” she said. “Or studying. I forget you exist anywhere else.”
The way she said it wasn’t dismissive. It landed more like an admission.
He felt a small, involuntary smile tug at his mouth. “I do,“ he said. “Barely.“
That got a real laugh out of her, brief but unguarded. It loosened something in him he hadn’t realized was tight.
A guy from Oren’s shift came in to grab a to-go order. He nodded at Oren as he passed. “You back in a bit?“
“Yeah,“ Oren said. “I’m good.“
The guy glanced once at Ayara, then kept moving without comment.
When the door closed again, Ayara looked at Oren, her expression more focused now.
“They treat you like you’re solid,“ she said.
He didn’t answer right away. He hadn’t expected her to say that.
“They don’t worry about you here,“ she continued. “They assume you’ll show up.“
He shrugged, but the motion felt incomplete. “That’s just work.“
“Still,“ she said. “It matters.“
Something in her tone shifted there. Not professionalism. Something closer to concern, stripped of distance.
He studied her face, the way her eyes stayed on him without sliding away, like she was waiting for him to either accept or reject what she was offering.
“Maybe you should tell my parents that,“ he said with a laugh. “They act like I’m lost.“
He balled up his sandwich paper. He hadn’t meant to say that much.
“Mine too, to be honest.”
“Yeah?“
“But I don’t see it that way. You know where you are. You’re just not interested in defending it.“
“You make it sound nicer than it is.“
“I’m not trying to,“ she said. “I’m just saying what I see.“
That landed harder than it should have.
They finished eating without rushing. When they stood, it felt coordinated without being planned, like they’d been moving in step longer than either of them realized.
Outside, the afternoon heat pressed in, the street loud and active. They stopped near the door, neither immediately turning away.
“I’m glad I ran into you,“ she said.
The words landed cleanly. No qualifiers. No role attached.
“Me too,“ he said, and meant it in a way that startled him.
She hesitated, then tilted her head slightly. “I’m usually around here this time. Most days.“
“So am I,“ he said.
She smiled at that, small but unmistakable.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other again,“ she said.
“Yeah,“ he said. “Maybe.“
She turned and headed down the block. Oren stood there longer than he meant to, then checked the time and went back inside, the rest of the day sitting differently against him, like something had been nudged out of place and not put back.