Midnight Walks | ✔

epilogue

THREE YEARS LATER

. . .

STREETLIGHT REFLECTS IN THE CONCAVED PARTS OF THE CURB WHERE WATER HAS COLLECTED FROM LAST NIGHT'S DOWNPOUR. Children bounce on their heels, giddiness and caution mixing in equal ratios. Adults still have umbrellas atop their heads, even though the rain stopped many hours ago. My feet tap a steady rhythm onto the modern, floral designed hardwood. Overhead, the lights flicker a dull maroon, and the restaurant thrums to a classical rendition of some pop song I heard on my way here on the radio.

In my four years of knowing Evan Parker, I am better than expecting him to be punctual. That man has had a history of making people wait for him. In a profession such as his, it feels as though time runs on a very one-off beat. Everything is fast-flowing (or at least how it seems) except when a big shot superstar celebrity thinks otherwise. Of course, this is a perk you get only once you've grilled yourself for years on end and proved that you're worth something. And he has done that exact thing. Time and time again.

Still, someday, I hope to make him feel the same sense of bother that he puts many—and me—through a daily basis.

I'm partially kidding. At least, with me, he tries his best to be on time. But that's clearly not the case this once, since the restaurant is empty, safe for the waiters and manager occasionally walking around my table with the levels of subtlety rivaling my visible discomfort.

The door flies open. In gushes a gust of cold, moisture-ridden air, and I'm met with the urge to wrap my overcoat tighter around my frame before my eyes land on the person who has just stepped in.

It is the same feeling every time our eyes meet: the earth aligning itself with its axis. Like until now, everything was painstakingly off-kilter and I hadn't noticed.

My feet move on their own accord—it is inevitable. I haven't seen him in two months and he's in a white turtleneck and black coat and his eyes cast over mine in that soft, hazy way he looks just at me, and it feels too much like a dream for me to recall that I am supposed to be mad at him for making me wait so long.

He catches me when I throw myself at him. Doesn't stumble, just holds me with a singular arm, the other holding multiple shopping bags. Then he laughs, gently, before my feet hit the ground again. I guess when the love of your life is finally in front of you after weeks of mere texts and occasional calls, being angry can wait.

"Hi," he cracks a smile. "I missed you so much."

"You're late." I say before I forget every speck of annoyance just by staring at the precise blue of his eyes. And for a moment, I don't just forget anger. Everything dissolves when his gaze his so soft. "I missed you too."

"I know. I'm sorry." He motions to the waiter, orders our usual, then pulls a chair for me. The second I'm seated, my eyes scan the place once again, and a thought flashes through my mind. "Don't tell me you booked this entire restaurant for us."

He shrugs, which means he definitely did. He doesn't ever do this when it is just about him. But he knows how uncomfortable it makes me to have eyes, curious and watching my every move. Over the years, privacy with him has gotten undeniably harder—especially in public places. He knows how to deal with being followed into places by strangers who have no business with you. I don't. "About me being late: horrid traffic and rain. An even terrible mix."

He merely grins as he says, "Let me make it up to you."

My eyes are on him, challenging, as he makes his way across. "And how are you planning to do that?"

Only when he's seated does he blink at me, pure mischief glinting on his face. "A time and place for looks like that, my love."

I almost break into a grin. "Shut up. I'm mad at you."