The restaurant was called The Copper Vine and it was exactly the kind of place Laura hadn't been to in years.
White linen tablecloths, candles on the tables, a sommelier who moved among the customers with an air of discreet importance. It wasn't the kind of place you went for a quick dinner after work—it was the kind of place you went for a special occasion.
Laura wondered if David had chosen it on purpose.
"Nervous?"
David Chen was looking at her over the menu, a half smile on his lips. He was a man in his mid-forties, with a face that aged well—a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled, black hair with silver threads at the temples that gave him a distinguished air without being gray. Medium build, broad shoulders but not imposing, with that kind of quiet presence that filled a space without dominating it.
He wore a dark blue shirt that Laura suspected he'd ironed especially for the evening, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that casual-but-careful way that male teachers seemed to have perfected. No tie—David wasn't the tie type, Laura had learned over the past months. But his shoes were polished, his dark jeans were clean, and there was a simple watch on his wrist that looked more like a family heirloom than an accessory.
He had kind eyes—it had been the first thing Laura noticed about him, that day at the teachers' conference. Dark brown, almost black, with that rare quality of seeming to really see people, not just look at them. When he listened to you, he looked you in the eyes, and it wasn't the kind of performative eye contact some men did to seem interested. It was genuine.
"A little," Laura admitted. "It's... it's been a long time since I've done something like this."
"Dinner?"
"Dinner with someone who isn't my son or a colleague complaining about papers to grade."
David laughed—a warm laugh, unpretentious. "Well, I can complain about papers to grade too, if it makes you feel more at home. Seventy-five essays on the American Revolution this week. Seventy-five creative ways my students avoid answering the question I asked."
Laura smiled. "Try one hundred and twenty math tests on division of monomials. One hundred and twenty proofs that the phone calculator is destroying a generation."
"You teach middle school math, right? Seventh grade?"
"Seventh and eighth." Laura nodded. "And every year I ask myself why I keep doing it."
"And every year you have the answer when one student finally gets it."
Laura looked at him, surprised. "Exactly."
It was so easy, with David. No pressure, no expectations. Just two people who liked each other and were trying to get to know each other better.
They'd met six months ago, at one of those mandatory teachers' conferences nobody really wanted to attend. "Innovative Strategies for 21st Century Learning" or some pompous title like that. Laura was sitting in the back of the room, already mentally planning the next day's lesson, when the man next to her had whispered: "If he says 'lateral thinking' one more time, I'm going to scream."
Laura had stifled a laugh. "Or 'holistic learning.'"
"Or 'cross-cutting skills.'"
"Or 'experiential teaching.'"
They'd spent the rest of the conference playing bingo with educational jargon, like two rebellious students in the back of the class. It had been the first moment of real lightness Laura had had in months.
Afterward, David had offered her coffee. Then another coffee. Then lunch. Then a walk. And gradually, without Laura really realizing it, he'd become someone she looked forward to seeing, someone who made her smile just thinking about him.
You deserve this, she told herself now, watching him study the menu with comic seriousness. You deserve to be happy.
But Nathan's voice came back to her mind—that calibrated smile, those eyes that never really smiled. I'm fine, Mom. Really.
"Hey." David reached a hand across the table, brushing her fingers. "What were you thinking about?"
Laura blinked. "Sorry. I was just..."
"Nathan?"
The precision of the question caught her by surprise. "How do you know?"
"You have that crease between your eyebrows." David pointed to his own face. "You get it every time you think about him. I noticed it at the conference, when you first told me about him."
Laura sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Am I that transparent?"
"You're a mother. It's normal."
The waiter arrived with the menus, poured water, recited the day's specials with mechanical efficiency. Laura listened without really hearing, nodded, ordered something she probably wouldn't taste.
When the waiter left, David was still looking at her with that patient, open expression.
"You want to talk about it?"
"I don't want to ruin your evening with my problems."
"Laura." David leaned forward slightly. "You're not ruining anything. If you need to talk, talk. I'm here for that."
Laura looked at him—this kind man who had entered her life almost by chance, who asked nothing of her except to be herself. He was so different from what she expected. So different from what she thought she deserved.
"I don't know what to do with him," she said finally. The words came out before she could stop them. "With Nathan, I mean. I've been trying to reach him for two years and... nothing. It's like talking to a wall."
David nodded, listening.
"He always says he's fine. Always. With that smile he uses with everyone—the same smile, the same words, like he has a script in his head." Laura ran a hand through her hair. "And I pretend to believe him, because I don't know what else to do. Because I'm afraid that if I corner him, he'll..."
She stopped. She couldn't say that word.
"Break down?" David suggested quietly.
"Or worse." Laura felt her eyes fill with tears. "I don't even know what's worse. I only know my son is disappearing before my eyes and I can't stop it."
David said nothing. He didn't offer solutions, didn't minimize, didn't tell her everything would be okay. He simply held her hand and let her talk.
"Today he had his last meeting with the school counselor. The famous 'check-out.'" Laura made air quotes with her fingers. "Two years of weekly meetings, and you know what he told me when I asked how it went? 'Good. The usual.' Like it was a dentist appointment."
"What did you expect him to say?"
"I don't know. Something. Anything that wasn't... empty." Laura wiped her eyes with the napkin. "When Daniel was alive, Nathan was... he was different. He talked, he laughed, he got angry. He was present. And now..."
"Now he wears a mask."
Laura looked at him, surprised. "Yes. Exactly. How do you—"
"I've had students like that." David sighed. "Not many, but some. The ones who lose a parent and decide they have to hold everything together for everyone else. Who think that showing pain means being a burden."
"That's exactly what Nathan does. Exactly."
"It's a defense mechanism. Not unusual, especially in kids who had a very close relationship with the parent they lost." David paused. "Were Nathan and his father close?"
"Inseparable." Laura's voice cracked. "Daniel was... he was his world. He taught him everything—astronomy, physics, how to look at things. They spent evenings in the backyard with the telescope, talking about stars and galaxies. Nathan would have done anything for him."
"And now he feels he has to live up to that memory."
Laura nodded slowly. "I'd never thought of it in those terms, but... yes. I think he feels obligated to be perfect. Not to disappoint Daniel's memory."
"Which puts him in an impossible prison." David shook his head. "No one can live up to an idealized memory. Memories have no flaws, no moments of weakness. They're frozen at their best point."
Laura thought about Daniel. The real Daniel—not the one from Nathan's memories, but the one she'd known for twenty years. The wonderful man who sometimes forgot anniversaries, who snored, who got angry over stupid things and then apologized. The man who loved his son more than anything in the world, but who was also human, imperfect, fragile.
Nathan didn't remember that Daniel. He remembered an idealized, untouchable version.
"I've tried to talk to him," said Laura. "So many times. But every time I get close, he... shuts down. He smiles at me and tells me everything's fine. And I don't know how to get past that wall."
"Maybe you don't have to get past it."
Laura looked at him, confused.
"Maybe," David continued, "the way to reach him isn't to break down the wall. Maybe it's to stand beside him until he decides to open a door."
"And if he never opens it?"
David didn't respond right away. He held her hand, his thumb tracing small circles on the back.
"Kids like Nathan... sometimes they need something to shake them up. Something that breaks the pattern, that forces them to look at what they're doing." He paused. "It's not always something good. Sometimes it's a crisis. Sometimes it's hitting rock bottom. But sometimes it's simply... someone who refuses to accept their polite lies."
Laura thought about Maya. The girl Nathan had been hanging out with for years, the one with hazel eyes and an expression always a little worried when she looked at her son. She wondered if Maya had tried to reach Nathan. If she'd had more success than her.
"Sorry," she said suddenly. "I'm monopolizing the evening with my problems. We should talk about... I don't know, anything else."
David smiled. "You're not monopolizing anything. You told me about your son. He's important to you, so he's important to me too."
"But this was supposed to be a date. A romantic dinner. Not a therapy session."
"Who says it can't be both?" David raised his water glass. "To us. To our problematic children. To papers to grade. And to everything that comes after."
Laura laughed—a real laugh, that came out before she could stop it. It had been so long since she'd laughed like that.
"But you don't have children," she laughed, clinking her glass against his.
"No, but I have students. It's basically the same thing, except I can return them at the end of the day."
Laura laughed again. David smiled at her—that warm smile, unpretentious, that reminded her why she'd accepted this date.
"Tell me about you," she said. "Something that has nothing to do with Nathan, or school, or anything serious. Something stupid."
David thought for a moment. "Once I went hiking in the mountains and got lost for six hours because I refused to admit I'd been reading the map upside down."
"No."
"Yes." David nodded with fake solemnity. "I was twenty-three and too proud. I walked in circles for an entire afternoon before surrendering and asking directions from a group of ten-year-old scouts."
Laura burst out laughing. "And what did they tell you?"
"That the map was upside down. And then they offered me a marshmallow."
"Did you accept it?"
"Of course. I was hungry and they were right." David shrugged. "Since that day I use GPS."
Laura felt something loosen in her chest—that constant tension she'd been carrying for two years, that weight that never completely left her. For a moment, sitting in that restaurant with candles and white tablecloths, she felt almost... light.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For making me laugh. For listening to me without judging." Laura looked at him. "For being... you."
David smiled at her. He opened his mouth to respond.
And in that moment the lights went out.
Not gradually. Not with a flicker. One instant they were there, the next instant they weren't.
Total darkness.
A murmur went through the restaurant—surprise, confusion, some nervous laughter. Laura felt David grab her hand.
"Blackout," he said. "Strange. There's no bad weather... Not even a cloud in the sky..."
"Did the power go out?" Laura looked toward the windows. Outside, the street was dark. "It looks like... it looks like it's the whole area."
"Everyone stay calm!" The restaurant manager's voice, from somewhere in the darkness. "It's just a temporary blackout. The emergency lights will come on in a moment."
But they didn't come on.
Laura waited, counting the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
"The emergency lights should already be on," David murmured.
Laura pulled her phone from her purse, more out of habit than rational thought. She could at least use the flashlight.
The screen was black.
She pressed the power button. Nothing.
"Strange," she said. "My phone..." She pressed again, holding it longer. "It won't turn on."
"Mine either." David's voice had lost its earlier lightness. Laura heard him move, fiddle with something. "Nothing. And it's charged, I checked before leaving."
Around them, other customers were coming to the same conclusion. Confused murmurs, a tone of voice rising slightly.
"My phone's dead."
"Mine won't work either."
"What kind of blackout turns off phones?"
The restaurant manager had found a battery-powered flashlight—an old one, it seemed from the kind of flickering light it projected. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the inconvenience. We're... we're trying to figure out what's happening."
Laura looked at David in the darkness. She could barely make out the contours of his face in the dim light from the candles on the tables.
"Nathan's home alone," she said.
David nodded. "Let's go. I have the car nearby."
They stood up, leaving money on the table—David pulled it from his wallet by memory, without being able to see it. The restaurant was in controlled chaos, customers heading toward the exit, staff trying to manage the situation.
Outside, the evening air was warm. Pine Hollow was immersed in darkness—no streetlights, no lights from houses, no distant glow from downtown. Only the stars, brighter than Laura had ever seen them, and a crescent moon that provided just enough light to see where to put your feet.
The restaurant parking lot was a silent chaos. Other people were coming out, heading toward their cars. Laura followed David to his car—a gray Honda Civic parked under a tree.
David pulled out his keys, pressed the button to unlock the doors.
No sound. No flashing lights.
He tried again. Nothing.
"Maybe the remote battery," he murmured, inserting the physical key into the lock. He opened the door, sat in the driver's seat. Laura got in on the other side.
David turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing.
Not the tired sound of a starter motor with a dead battery. Not a click. Just nothing. As if the car were completely dead.
"What the hell..." David tried again, pumping the accelerator. Nothing. He checked the dashboard—everything off. Not even the warning lights came on.
From the parking lot came other sounds of frustration.
"My car won't start! It won't turn on!"
"It's completely dead!"
"What's happening?"
Laura felt the cold in her stomach intensify. It wasn't just a blackout. It was something worse. Something that had turned everything off—electricity, phones, cars. Everything.
David looked at her through the dark interior. "Let's walk," he said. "How far is your house?"
"Thirty minutes. Maybe thirty-five."
"Then let's go."
They got out of the car. David closed the door harder than necessary, a gesture of controlled frustration. He took Laura's hand.
"I'll stay with you until we get there," he said. "And then we'll see what's happening."
Laura nodded, unable to speak. They started walking, leaving behind the restaurant and the parking lot full of dead cars.
The stars shone above them—brighter than usual, without the city lights to compete. In other circumstances, Laura would have found the night sky beautiful. But now, as she walked quickly through the darkness next to this man she'd known for six months, all she could think about was her son.
Nathan. Nathan. Nathan.
She didn't know why, but she had the feeling something was about to change.
Something big.