Chapter 22: The First Real Date
Carmelo's was exactly what Sarah had promised—small, family-owned, tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner on a side street in the Village.
I arrived ten minutes early and waited outside, watching my breath fog in the January cold. The nervousness was real but manageable. Not the desperate anxiety of someone who'd never dated, just normal first-date jitters.
Sarah appeared at 7:58 PM, bundled in a heavy coat with her hair down instead of the usual messy bun. She spotted me and smiled.
"Hey! Sorry I'm almost late. Subway was packed."
"You're fine. Two minutes early, technically."
"Oh good. I hate being late." She gestured at the restaurant. "Ready? I promise the food is worth the tiny portions."
The interior was warm and cramped—maybe ten tables total, red-checkered tablecloths, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce so thick you could taste it. An older Italian man greeted Sarah by name.
"Ah, bella! You bring a boyfriend finally?"
Sarah laughed, not correcting him. "Table for two, Franco."
"The best table for you. Come, come."
He led us to a corner spot with a candle already lit. The menus were laminated paper with handwritten additions taped on.
"Boyfriend," I said once Franco had left. "That was fast."
"I mean..." She looked at me over the menu. "Do you want to do the whole 'what are we' conversation on the first date? Because we can, but it feels early."
"Fair point."
"Or we could just see where this goes naturally and define it later."
"Also fair."
She grinned. "You're very agreeable. Is that your default setting or are you nervous?"
"Both, probably."
"Good. I'd be worried if you weren't nervous at all. That would mean you're either a serial dater or a sociopath."
The conversation flowed from there like water finding its level. She told me about her design work—freelancing for small businesses, mostly logos and branding, occasionally website layouts. Her latest client had wanted "modern but vintage, clean but busy, professional but fun."
"So they wanted everything," I said.
"Exactly! But I figured it out. That's the puzzle-solving part I like. Taking contradictions and making them work together."
"Like putting soy milk in a latte."
"Is that controversial?"
"Some coffee purists think so. But if it tastes good and makes the customer happy, who cares about purity?"
She pointed her fork at me. "Exactly. Function over form. Or function AND form when possible."
We ordered—she got the carbonara, I got the bolognese. Franco brought wine without asking and Sarah didn't object.
The food was incredible. Rich without being heavy, portions small but satisfying. We ate slowly, talking between bites.
She asked about Central Perk, and I told her the sanitized version: steady job, good boss, regular customers who'd become familiar faces. Didn't mention the gang specifically or the weird power dynamics of serving people who were slowly becoming friends.
"Do you like it?" she asked. "The work, I mean. Or is it just a job?"
I thought about how to answer honestly without revealing too much.
"It's... complicated. I'm good at it. I like the routine, the craft of making a perfect cup. But it's not what I want to do forever."
"What do you want to do?"
The question caught me off-guard. Not because I didn't know the answer, but because I'd never said it out loud to anyone in this life.
"I want to own it," I said. "Or own something like it. Build a business that's mine. Have real friends, not just acquaintances. Actually live instead of just existing."
Sarah set down her wine glass and looked at me with something like surprise. "That's refreshingly honest. Most guys would say something about being rich or famous or traveling the world."
"Those things sound nice. But they're not what I actually want."
"What you actually want is stability, ownership, and genuine connection."
"Yeah. That."
She smiled—soft and real. "I like that. No bullshit."
"Too much?"
"Not at all. I asked because I wanted to know. You told me the truth. That's..." She gestured with her fork. "That's really nice."
Sarah - 8:47 PM
Sarah Martinez watched Gunther talk about coffee-making techniques and felt something settle in her chest.
This was working. Actually working.
She'd dated enough guys to know the difference between someone performing and someone being real. Gunther was real. Awkward in places, sure—he fumbled the wine bottle when trying to pour her second glass—but genuine.
He listened when she talked instead of just waiting for his turn. Asked follow-up questions that showed he'd actually absorbed what she'd said. Laughed at her jokes without that performative ha-ha-ha thing some guys did.
And he was honest about wanting stability and friendship. Most guys she'd dated wanted excitement, adventure, constant novelty. Which was fine, but exhausting.
Gunther wanted to build something. That was rare. Attractive, even.
"You're doing the thing," he said, pulling her from her thoughts.
"What thing?"
"Studying me. Like you're trying to figure out if I'm real or just pretending."
She laughed, caught. "Was it that obvious?"
"I've been a barista for a while. You learn to read people."
"And what am I thinking?"
"That I'm either genuinely this straightforward or I'm a very good liar."
"So which is it?"
He met her eyes. "Genuinely this straightforward. I'm a terrible liar."
She believed him. More importantly, she wanted to believe him.
That was the difference.
By 9:30 PM, we'd finished dessert—tiramisu that Franco insisted we try—and were lingering over the last of the wine.
"I should probably let you have your table back," Sarah said, glancing at Franco who was pointedly ignoring us while cleaning the same spot on the bar for the third time.
"Yeah. Plus I have an early shift tomorrow."
We paid—split the bill despite Franco's insistence that the man should pay—and stepped back into January cold.
"I'm this way," Sarah said, pointing south. "You?"
"North. I'll walk you home."
"Very gentlemanly."
"Very practical. I don't want you getting mugged before our second date."
She laughed. "Oh, so there's going to be a second date?"
"If you want."
"I do." She linked her arm through mine as we walked. "This was really nice. Better than nice. Actually good."
"Yeah. It was."
We walked three blocks in comfortable silence. Sarah's apartment building was a brown-brick walkup with a cranky-looking superintendent visible through the lobby window.
"This is me," she said, stopping at the entrance.
"Got it."
We stood there for a moment, that awkward should-we-kiss pause that makes everyone feel like teenagers.
Sarah solved it by leaning up and kissing me.
Brief. Sweet. Just long enough to confirm yes, chemistry exists, yes, we both want this.
When she pulled back, she was smiling. "Come to Central Perk on Thursday? I want to see you in your element."
"Thursday works."
"Perfect." She kissed me again, even briefer. "Goodnight, Gunther."
"Goodnight."
She disappeared into the building and I stood there like an idiot, grinning at nothing.
First date. Successful. Second date already scheduled.
The Fateful Encounter power had delivered exactly what it promised—genuine compatibility, natural chemistry, real connection. Not fake or manufactured. Just someone who fit.
I walked home through Manhattan's January streets, hands in my pockets, still grinning.
For the first time in either life, I was dating someone who'd actually chosen me. Not someone I'd pined for from a distance. Not someone who barely knew I existed.
Someone who'd met me, talked to me, and decided yes, him, I want more of him.
The feeling was better than any power I'd discovered. Better than any business plan or gang integration.
Just... better.
My studio apartment felt less lonely when I entered it. I made tea and sat at the window, replaying the evening.
Sarah asking what I wanted from life. Me telling the truth. Her responding with "that's refreshingly honest" instead of backing away.
The kiss goodnight. Simple and promising.
Thursday. Two days away. She'd come to Central Perk and see me at work, and the gang would inevitably notice and comment, and the whole thing would become public in their world.
I was okay with that. More than okay.
I finished my tea and went to bed thinking about carbonara and honesty and the strange miracle of finding someone compatible in a world I'd only lived in for three and a half months.
The notebook stayed closed tonight. No documentation, no analysis. Just the experience, raw and real and entirely mine.
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