We offer our goodbyes, and then I take off toward Third Avenue, where I’m supposed to meet Scottie. I texted her late last night, introduced myself, and sent her a picture so she knew what to look for. She responded that I looked like a bulkier version of Mika. I took that as a drunk confession, because I doubt she’d say something like that to someone she didn’t know. And then we agreed to meet in front of the Anthropologie on Third. She stated it was appropriate because there were wedding dresses in the window display.

But that’s about all I know.

I thought about asking Mika for more information, but since he works late, I knew he wouldn’t have time to answer me, and also, I kind of want this to be a mystery. I’ve known Denise for years, but I’ve yet to meet Scottie. I think Mika said she’d only recently moved to NYC a few months ago.

I finish my coffee cake, throw my garbage in a bin, and then cross the street to the Anthropologie, where I find a woman standing in front of the window display, arms crossed, glancing around as if she’s looking for someone.

From the uneasiness in her stature to her wandering eyes, there’s no doubt that it’s her, so I pause for a moment to take her in.

Standing at what I’m going to assume is five six with heels, she comes off as professional in a black pencil skirt with a tucked-in white blouse, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her legs are bare, and her feet are fit into simple heels. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, curled at the ends, and she doesn’t have one strand out of place. She seems poised, ready to take on the world, but the knit in her brow and the worry on her lip lend me to believe as an onlooker that something’s troubling her.

I can only imagine what that is…

With my hands in my pockets, I cross the street, and just as I hit the sidewalk, her eyes connect with mine.

She stands a bit taller, adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder. “Wilder?”

“That would be me,” I answer as I watch her eyes not so coyly take in my black worn jeans, forest-green T-shirt with a hole in the collar, and my loose-fitting beanie.

“You’re…you’re not what I expected,” she says, giving me one more once-over.

“Yeah? What were you expecting?”

“Well, I mean, someone with…” She gestures toward me but doesn’t follow it up with a definition.

“Might have to catch me up on what you’re trying to say, because it’s not making much sense.”

She clears her throat. “Sorry, I just thought given your position in life, that you might look more…professional.”