meeting Rob

You’re almost to the elevator when Ophelia catches you. “Hold on, reporter,” she says, stepping back to give you a once-over. “You look fine, but fine doesn’t get people talking. You’re about to go on a first date with someone — make him want to take you home.”

You laugh, half-flustered. “So… a wardrobe critique?”

“A reminder,” she says, fishing in her purse. “Confidence shows. Shoulders back, chin up. Maybe a touch more color.” She hands you a small tube of lipstick. “You want to look like you believe in your own story.”

You apply it carefully, feeling both silly and braver than you expected.

“And,” Ophelia adds, nodding at your hand, “take off the ring while you’re working. It’s not deceit — it’s clarity. People speak differently when they don’t feel they’re being evaluated. You need him to talk like he would to anyone.”

You hesitate, then slide the ring from your finger. It leaves a faint, pale mark — a small ghost of your real life.

“Better,” Ophelia says, smiling. “Now go make him forget he’s being interviewed.”

By the time you reach the café across from Community Christian Church, the day is sliding into gold. The windows glint with light, the air hums with late afternoon traffic, and the clean, angular lines of the building across the street look almost unreal — too composed, too still.

You choose a seat by the window and check your phone. No sign of Rob.

You text Tom: He’s late. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m ridiculous for being nervous.

A few seconds later, the dots appear, then his reply: You’re not ridiculous. You’re doing something brave. Remember — this is your story, not his. You’ll be great.

You smile at the screen, the message grounding you.

Then the café door opens.

Rob steps in, scanning the tables. He’s just as he looked online, yet somehow more vivid — his presence soft but certain, the kind of calm that draws a room’s attention without trying. He's taller than you imagined, you'd assumed he was lying when he wrote 6'2" on his profile.

You raise your hand. “Rob?”

He turns toward your voice, smiling as he approaches. “Sorry I’m late. Main Street was a parking lot.”

You shake your head, gesturing to the seat across from you. “You’re right on time.”

As he sits, the last streak of sunlight catches the church’s limestone façade. For a moment, you watch the light shift and think about what Ophelia said — not about charm, but about belief.

You steady yourself.

You are here to listen.

You are here to begin.