Second Chances (3 page)

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The restaurant was sparsely populated
, which wasn’t unusual for a late Sunday morning.  It was one of the reasons Reagan preferred the Brooklyn spot to a restaurant closer to where she lived. If they’d eaten in Manhattan, near her residence hall, they would have had to battle tourists and Gossip Girls for a tiny table at a too-crowded and over-priced eatery.  Here in the outer boroughs, however, she could breathe a little easier.

The hostess sat them at a table for two near the front
of the restaurant and left them with waters and menus.

Allison opened the paper menu and scanned her options.  “So what’s good here?”

“Pretty much everything,” Reagan noted.  She opened the menu as well and scanned down the listings.  She didn’t really need to look; she’d been to the popular vegan spot numerous times with her friends from school. But she looked anyway to give her something to do.  With her hands clinging to the paper menu, she felt stable.  She desperately wanted to avoid spilling anything else in Allison’s presence if she could help it.

“I always go for the tofu scramble, but I don’t know how you feel about tofu, so maybe you should stay away from that.  I’d hate for your entire morning to be ruined by a sub-par breakfast if tofu’s not your thing,” she noted. “There’s some faux meat products you might like as a side,” she observed, still looking at the menu’s options. “I’m told they actually taste like the real thing even though they’re made out of soy and tempeh.  I wouldn’t know if they really taste like real meat though.  It’s been quite a while since I’ve eaten real bacon or sausage.
” She was conscious of her word vomit, but once she started, it was hard to stop. “This is one of the completely vegan brunch spots I like to frequent, but I also enjoy organic restaurants with vegan options.  As long as it’s socially conscious meat, I’m not so offended by its presence on the menu.”  She ended her ramble and bit down on her lower lip as if only that motion was keeping the verbal garbage at bay.

Allison pursed her lips, looking amused, rather than annoyed by Reagan’s enthusiasm.  She hadn’t needed to take a breath at all during her food monologue.  “You haven’t changed,” she observed with a thoughtful smile.  “Still as eager and passionate as always.”

Reagan flushed and looked back down at the menu to avoid Allison’s inspecting gaze.

“I take that back.” Allison’s voice floated into her ears.  “You’re wearing a shocking lack of neon colors and kitten sweaters,” she smirked.

“Neon is making a comeback,” Reagan huffed.  “Besides, you try being raised by a single dad and see how
your
fashion sense turns out.”

Allison frowned at the casualness with which Reagan referred to her parental situation, but she mentally shook those thoughts away.  If Reagan wasn’t going to be bothered by it, she wouldn’t allow herself to be upset either.

A tall man in dark skinny jeans and a maroon t-shirt with a deep v-neck cut walked up to their table.  “You guys ready to order?” he asked, pushing his square-framed glasses up higher on his nose.

Allison looked up from her menu and smiled, showing two rows of perfectly white, even teeth.  “I’ll have the eggless omelet with fake cheese, real mushrooms, real spinach
, and a side of fake bacon.  Oh, and some real orange juice if you have it.”  She carefully placed the menu back down on the table and folded her hands on her lap.

The waiter’s heavy eyebrows furrowed together.  He obviously couldn’t tell if this girl was mocking the vegan menu or not.  But she had ordered with such calm authority, he could only nod and scribble down her request on his hand-held pad of paper.

Allison had always exuded a casual confidence that put Reagan on edge. She had possessed a calculated maturity beyond her years even when she was belittling Reagan in high school or persuading a football player to shove the brunette into a locker.  It had never felt fair that while others struggled mightily in adolescence, Allison Hoge looked like she knew the secrets of not just survival, but of
thriving
during the typically traumatizing years.

“And for you?” he asked, turning to Reagan.

“Tofu scramble and coffee.”

The waiter continued to write for what felt like longer than their order warranted before nodding and walking off towards the kitchen.
Before long, their food appeared on the table.  Reagan hadn’t realized how hungry she’d actually become in the late morning until the waiter had brought them their food, and she eagerly dug into her breakfast.

“How’s your dad?”

Reagan paused at the question and finished chewing.  She was thankful for the extra time.  She couldn’t tell if Allison was genuinely curious or just making polite conversation.  She wiped at her mouth with a napkin.  “He’s fine,” she said.  She took a small sip of her water. “He misses me.  Naturally.”

Allison chuckled at the response and continued to cut her eggless omelet into uniform bites.

“He’s taken up some new hobbies,” Reagan continued.  “Staying busy, I guess.”  She eyeballed the girl seated across the table.  “And your parents?”

Allison shrugged delicately beneath her light cardigan.  “They’re fine.”  She picked up her fork and stabbed a carefully measured bite. 

Reagan waited for Allison to elaborate, but nothing came.

The rest of the meal was filled with similar awkward silences.  Reagan found herself looking everywhere except across the table.  They finished their meal civilly
, and before too long the waiter had returned with the check.  Once again, as she had done in the cab, Allison circumvented Reagan’s attempts to pay for anything.

“Well this was…” Reagan searched for a neutral word,  “interesting.”  She looked up when their waiter returned with Allison’s credit card.  “And thank you for brunch.  You really didn’t need to do pay though. Again.”

Reagan watched Allison scribble down an overly generous tip at the bottom of the paper bill.  “You don’t need to thank me.  Thank Rodger Hoge.”

“Well I guess as soon as we’re finished here,” Reagan quipped, “I’ll be sending him a fruit basket.”

Allison stared across the table with a bemused look sketched on her features.  “I can never tell when you’re being serious.”

Reagan shook her head.  “I say ridiculous things when I’m nervous.”

Allison’s pink lips twisted coyly. “You must be nervous a lot.”

“Only around you,” Reagan countered.

Allison cocked her head to the side, but said nothing for a long, awkward moment.  Reagan hated the silence.  She always felt the need to fill empty spaces; it was a compulsion of hers. Instead of giving in this time, however, she silently counted in her head.

Allison grabbed the pen from inside the bill folder.  Her head tilted down toward the table and she wrote down a series of numbers on a white napkin.

“What’s that?”

Allison carefully set the pen back on the table.  “My cell number.”  She rose from the table.  “I have a train to catch.” Without further explanation, she pressed the napkin with her number on it into Reagan’s hand.  “If you ever want to get out of the city, call me,” she said.  Her voice flowed like honey.  Reagan envied that voice.  Her own always felt a little too large and loud for her slight frame. “You’d love Providence. It’s lovely.”

Reagan nodded dumbly, her words failing her again.  Allison offered the befuddled girl a final smile in parting, gathered her purse and jacket, and exited out the front door of the Brooklyn restaurant, leaving Reagan behind.

Reagan looked down at the white napkin in her hand and the carefully scrawled numbers staring back at her.  She crumpled the napkin and immediately contemplated throwing the number away.  She’d been pleasantly shocked at how well behaved Allison had been during brunch, but if she never saw her high school tormenter again, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.  She instead could have this one morning, this one memory. 

If they spent any more time together, her lasting memory of Allison certainly wouldn’t be happy.  It would just be a matter of time, she reasoned, before the real Allison Hoge showed her beautiful, yet bitchy, face.

She unclenched her hand and the paper napkin slowly uncoiled.  The black inked numbers seemed to taunt her, jumping off the white, cotton napkin.  Finally, going against her initial gut reaction, she carefully folded the napkin in half and put it inside of her jacket pocket.

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When Reagan returned to her room, she was relieved to find that her roommate was out.  As much as she loved her friend, Ashley had the particular habit of being nosy.  And for once, she felt the need to not divulge every detail of her late morning meal.  She knew it was just a matter of time before the Spanish Inquisition arrived, but for the moment, she was thankful for the opportunity to process that morning’s events on her own.  But not too much time; she had homework, after all.

Realizing if her roommate came home that she’d never get any schoolwork done, she grabbed her art history textbook and shoved it, along with some other books, into her backpack.  She scribbled a quick note on a post-it for her roommate, letting her know where she’d gone, and headed to the library. 

The holiday season was long over, but the New York winter showed no signs of rele
nting.  Once back outside, Reagan flipped up the collar of her blue peacoat and tucked her head toward the sidewalk to shield herself from the brisk afternoon chill.  The sun was out, but it was a deceptively sunny day. 

She buried her hands deep into her pockets and lamented not having the foresight to have brought gloves with her.  The university library was only a few blocks from her residence hall, but her fingers already felt like they were going to fall off. Her fingers brushed against the textured napkin tucked away in her jacket pocket.  It took her a moment to remember what it was and whose number was written on it.

When Reagan had been thrust into the bustle of not just college life, but also living in the biggest city in the country, it had taken a while to adjust to the culture shock.  And as she tried to navigate in her new surroundings, she had lost contact with practically everyone from high school.  She wondered if it had been the same for Allison. Reagan mentally shook her head at the naivety of her high school self.  She often wished Time Travel existed so she could travel back and talk to her sixteen-year-old self.  It wasn’t that City Life had turned her into a pessimist; she was just more realistic about things like life and love now.

She
stopped walking when she suddenly found herself at the main entrance of the university library, having practically sleep-walked herself to the front steps.  Showing her student ID, she entered the building and found herself a study table in one of the designated quiet areas.

She pulled her hands out of her pockets and the white napkin fluttered out as well.  She frowned and bent to pick it up.  She thought about throwing it away again.  It was in her power; she’d never have to see and talk to
Allison Hoge unless they miraculously bumped into each other again.  Instead, she placed the napkin on the study table and smoothed out its edges.  She had homework to focus on; she’d make her decision on the fate of Allison’s phone number later.

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“Is this seat taken?”

Reagan
looked up from her art history textbook to see her roommate seated in the chair across from her. “What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling her ear buds out of her ears. “I didn’t think you even knew where the library was?”

Ashley gave her roommate a sheepish grin and shrugged. “I had to ask directions.”

Reagan smirked.

“I just wanted to be sure you were really here.  Can’t blame a girl for being concerned about her friend.”

“I left a note back at the room,” Reagan pointed out.

Ashley drummed her fingers on the tabletop and leaned backwards in her chair. “Yeah, but that
Allison girl could have forged it.”

Reagan
arched an eyebrow. “And have done what exactly? Kidnap me?”

Ashley shrugged. “Maybe.  Stranger things have happened.”

“Well she didn’t kidnap me,” Reagan stated with some finality.  “I’m fine.”

Ashley grinned. “So how was it?”

Reagan couldn’t help but roll her eyes – so much for finishing her homework that afternoon. “It was fine,” she said, purposefully vague.

Ashley sat patiently, waiting for
Reagan to elaborate. When it was clear her roommate wasn’t going to accept her shortened answer, Reagan made a quiet, disgruntled noise, but continued. “Okay,” she sighed, “so at first it was horrible.” She rubbed at her face as she paused to remember how disastrous the morning had begun.  “I was so nervous and angry and confused that I kind of yelled at her in the middle of the restaurant. And then I knocked my water over.”

“Oh no,” Ashley gasped sincerely.

“But then it got better; we left the diner and went to brunch in Brooklyn instead.”

“Don’t tell me you took her to that horrible vegan place you love?” Ashley looked horrified.  “Wait, is this girl vegan, too? What’s
wrong
with you Michigan people? Meat is delicious.”