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As Samira sets out on foot, her parka and mittens shielding her from the bitter cold on this February morning, her first thought is of the arts and crafts activity she has planned for her class later.
In her work bag sits some extra sheets of red and pink construction paper and a spare bottle of Elmer’s glue; she made sure to budget for mishaps in case there’s a repeat of last year, when someone’s water bottle spilled over the crafts table and she had to reckon with a group of devastated first-graders whose Valentine’s Cards turned to damp mulch.
Last week she bought some biodegradable, environmentally-friendly glitter online (using her own money, but c’est la vie). Budget cuts have left the art materials sorely lacking as of late and Samira has taken it upon herself to make sure the kids don’t know the difference.
Going over her lesson plan in her head, her steps crunching against the freshly fallen snow, she is fairly confident that she has thought of everything.
She is also distantly aware that most people her age are probably making plans for Valentine’s Day that don’t revolve around work, but can’t bring herself to feel overly troubled by it. She’d been single by choice for months and was quite happy with her decision. The last time she went out on a date was in November, and it had gone so badly that it made her decision to stop searching for love all the easier. The guy had invited her over for a home-cooked meal which turned out to be a ploy to get her to help out with making all the sides for his family’s Thanksgiving the next day. When she asked if they’d get to sample the dishes – y’know, the meal she had been promised – he sheepishly answered that he had only bought enough ingredients for the guests at the dinner. She clearly hadn’t been invited to that, so she left him at his doorstep. Spent the holiday at Dennis and Trinity’s instead and deleted the dating apps off her phone.
So, she doesn’t feel like she’s missing out much. She has a great job at a great school. She gets along well with her coworkers. She even loves the school building itself, with its brightly painted murals on nearly every wall and the decorated classroom doors, personalised by every teacher. Things aren’t perfect, but they could certainly be worse.
Would she like to have someone in her life she could make plans with? Sure, but she refuses to settle. If they come, they come. She isn’t going to actively seek them out unless they prove themselves first.
The walk goes quickly, her feet moving faster from her desire to get out of the snow. Ordinarily she would take the bus straight to work on a day as cold as this, but she had made plans to meet Trinity at their favourite café before the school day starts. And besides, she could use the extra few dollars she saved on the fare to get a strawberry matcha instead of her usual choice of drip coffee – a Valentine’s gift to herself.
She arrives at the café to find Trinity already waiting for her outside, but from the absence of any pink in her friend’s cheeks, Samira has to assume she only beat her there by a minute or so. They say a quick good morning before turning to get out of the cold.
“So, how are things with the surgeon?” Samira asks, holding the café door open for Trinity. The floor is a little slippery from the snow tracked in on customers’ boots so she has to watch her step as they make their way inside.
“The surgeon is hot,” Trinity answers, grinning widely, and Samira doesn’t really know how to respond so she just smiles back.
The café is busier than usual, the line ten or so people deep, but Samira doesn’t mind waiting. They budgeted plenty of time. She and Trinity both work at the same school so they are well-versed on the route – Google Maps says it’s fifteen minutes away from here, but they could do it in ten, even with the snow. No need to rush, more than enough time to stay here and warm up.
There are cafés far closer to work than this one, sure, but it’s a favourite of theirs, a local place with their own recipes and specials. One of Samira’s favourite things about it is how different it is from the chains popping up everywhere; the interior is somewhat reminiscent of a log cabin, all the furnishings softwood and quaintly mismatched, the walls decorated with needlepoint canvases and old photos of the storefront throughout the years.
As they slowly make their way to the counter, Trinity catches Samira up on her Valentine’s plans – dinner and cocktails with the surgeon at this incredible new Italian place near the hospital.
“Going out on Valentine’s,” Samira hums, “So I take it that means things are going well?”
“Really well.”
“So does that mean we’re going to learn her name soon?”
Trinity sighs, resigned. “Yeah, Dennis ran into her in the hallway last night, so the cat’s out of the bag, I guess.”
Finally. Samira wasn’t one for prying into people’s personal lives, but even she had gotten curious. When the queue next shifts up a spot, she had heard all about Yolanda Garcia, surgical superstar, who has Trinity completely and utterly smitten even though her friend is insistent that it’s still casual.
Though she’s more than happy to keep the discussion going for the rest of their journey – it’s nice, after all, to see her friend so excited – Samira quietly hopes that it doesn’t result in her being asked what her own plans are for tonight, She is content to live vicariously through Trinity; doesn’t want to have to make something up on the spot.
Then, just as Trinity’s head turns towards Samira and she can sense the question is about to come up, their conversation is very politely interrupted.
“Ms Mohan?”
For a moment, Samira has no idea who is calling out to her. The voice is familiar, definitely, but she can’t quite place it – calling her Ms Mohan, so it must be someone from work.
She pieces it together right before her eyes land on him; Jack Abbot, the father of one of her first graders, breaks free from the small group by the counter waiting for their orders. He waves, she returns it. Trinity’s brows furrow in confusion since she hasn’t seen him yet, has no idea who Samira’s waving to.
Approaching her with a friendly smile, hazel eyes twinkling, she feels her heart stutter in her ribcage.
From Samira’s response to seeing him, a person could be forgiven for assuming they have history, but they really don’t. She doesn’t even really know all that much about the man. She knows he’s a single parent, an advanced paramedic somewhere between the ages of forty and fifty – one who is about to go on duty, if the navy blue uniform is anything to go by. It suits him.
What else? He switches between days and nights, he mentioned that before. Drives an old truck with enough medical equipment in the back to stock a small hospital. Samira knows him to be a funny, awkwardly-charming sort of guy, one who always takes the time to make conversation when he comes to pick up his daughter.
He is also the one and only person Samira has had an honest-to-god crush on since she moved to Pittsburgh.
The word makes her feel a little juvenile, but there’s nothing else that describes it. It had honestly snuck up on her, too, no conscious decision on her part. He had come in one afternoon to deliver a first-aid presentation to the kids, and she had helped him pack up his stuff afterwards when everyone else had left. They just made polite small-talk for the most part, but then he went and made this incredibly dorky joke – called out ‘oh, apologies, sir!’ when he accidentally dropped the CPR manikin – and she had actually laughed at it, no faking whatsoever. Right then, she knew she was in trouble.
Scratch that – is, very much is still in trouble, because he has now arrived at her side and she had forgotten the way his goddamn eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
Ugh.
Damn it.
“Hi, Ms Mohan,” he says again now that he’s closer, his voice warm and gaze as intense as ever, arms folding over his chest like he often does when he’s settling into a conversation.
Okay. Maybe she lied to herself when she recalled barely knowing him.
She knows him a little. Over winter break, she had accidentally bumped into him at a local bookstore, both of them searching for this new crime thriller that had come out the day before. They had ended up chatting about the author for a good twenty minutes before they – again, very accidentally – decided to grab a coffee together to continue the conversation. Had talked about the book, about life. Shared an almond croissant. They stayed deep in conversation until he had to go pick up his daughter from soccer practice, and Samira could tell he meant it when he said it was a pleasure to talk with her.
But that was it. No exchange of numbers, no plans to meet again – that could hardly be called history, right?
“Hey,” she greets him now, clearing her throat before continuing. “And it’s Samira, please.”
“Samira,” he repeats with a nod, showing he has taken the message, maybe a little fondness in how he says it. Almost alarming how nice it is to hear her name coming from his lips.
Trinity glances at Jack, then to Samira, then back to him.
“And this is Trinity Santos,” Samira adds hastily, “She teaches second grade. Trinity, this is Jack Abbot, Sophie’s dad.”
He extends his hand.
“We’re classroom neighbours,” Trinity elaborates as they shake. “My door is the one with all the video game characters on it.”
“Ah, I think I remember – it’s got all those Nintendo characters, right? It’s awesome.”
“Right, but I’ll probably have to update it soon. The kids keep asking for a Roblox version.”
Jack just nods, but Samira can tell by his lack of verbal response that he doesn’t know what that means.
“So, you just heading out?” she chimes in as they move up another space in the line.
“Yep, still on days for the next couple of weeks, switching back towards the end of March,” he says, “and I’m kinda looking forward to it, honestly. I am not a morning person.”
He seems perfectly normal right now, but Samira realises this might not be his first coffee of the day.
It wasn't hers, either; she had knocked back a homemade hazelnut latte before setting out this morning, so they may have more in common than a shared guilty pleasure for spy novels.
“You prefer nights?” Samira follows up, her curiosity getting to her.
He gives a smile that looks more bashful than she expected. “Kinda weird, I know. I think I just prefer the pace of things at night.”
“Not weird at all,” she affirms, and though she doesn’t say as much since her friend is right next to them, she really understands the appeal – she’s not a morning person either but had to become one by virtue of her career path.
He opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to ask her something –
“Triple shot espresso for Jack!” the barista calls out.
He looks a bit startled at the interruption, as if he had forgotten why he was here. Shaking it off, he glances back at Samira apologetically as he takes a step towards the counter.
“The caffeine calls,” Jack informs her with another smile, “I’ll see you later, Samira – taking my lunch break around 2.30 so it’ll be me collecting Sophie, not her grandma. And Trinity, it was great to meet you.”
“You too!” Trinity answers, and from the overly cheery tone of her voice Samira knows she’s going to be grilled the very moment Jack is out of earshot.
When Jack reaches the counter, he exchanges a few words with the barista and hands her a bill from his pocket – must’ve forgotten to pay earlier. He leans over the counter for a moment but, with his back facing to them, Samira can’t see what he’s doing. Then, a few seconds later, he picks up his coffee, gives one last wave to Samira, and he’s gone.
Finally, her heartbeat starts to return to a regular rhythm.
“You guys seem friendly,” Trinity comments immediately, dragging out every letter in the word friendly.
Samira shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance, figuring it best not to be too defensive. “Oh, it’s nothing. He’s just being polite; I stayed like twenty minutes late a couple weeks ago so he could make it to Sophie’s parent-teacher conference after his shift." Which was true, "It wasn’t a big deal, I had no plans or anything, but he seemed to really appreciate it. His wife passed away when Sophie was a toddler, so it means a lot to him to get to go to these things.”
“Right,” Trinity says, nodding slowly, unconvinced. “Just, he like … lit up when he saw you.”
“He didn’t light up,” Samira scoffs. “He’s just kinda – I don’t know, extroverted.”
“‘Kay,” she answers, entirely unconvinced and making no attempt to hide it. “Want me to ask Yolanda if she knows anything about him? See if there’s any juicy info spreading through the hospital grapevine?”
“I’m good on juicy info, thanks,” Samira says, a hint of a grin on her lips for reasons she doesn’t quite understand.
Before Trinity can ask her anything else, it’s finally their turn at the register. Stepping up to the counter, Samira places the order since Trinity covered the last one — strawberry matcha, an almond flat white, and a few pastries to have during their lunch break – and goes to get her purse from her work bag, rummaging through for a second. As she searches for it, she misses the barista saying something, but since it doesn’t get repeated she figures it’s not that important.
Shit. Can’t find her purse amongst all the crafts stuff in here. Guess it’ll be Apple Pay, then.
“Oh, you’re good. They’ve already been paid for,” the barista informs them, waving away Samira’s attempt to tap her phone to the card reader.
It takes Samira a second to process.
“What’s that?” she asks, not sure if she heard it right.
“Don’t worry about it – they’ve already been paid for,” the barista repeats, polite but matter-of-fact as she takes the pastries from the case and starts to wrap them in brown paper.
“All of it? These too?” Samira asks when she’s handed the almond croissant and pain au chocolat, stepping to the side to not hold up the queue.
“Yep, the whole thing.”
“By who?” is the final question she feels compelled to ask, though her brain is already shouting out the answer.
The barista points with her chin towards the door. “By that guy in the medic uniform, just left a few minutes ago.”
A pleasant, warm kind of exhilaration spreads through Samira's chest when she get that confirmation, the kind that she vowed she would wait for.
Looks as though her patience might have paid off.
With the employees now taking the next order, she takes the cue to shuffle over to the waiting area near the counter, Trinity hovering at her shoulder the whole time.
“Oh, wait, he left this too!” the barista suddenly exclaims, looking around the register area for a moment before finding a small folded-up napkin, reaching over to hand it to Samira.
Samira accepts with a quiet thanks, pulse spiking again as she opens it up. The hastily-written note contains some digits at the top she assumes to be his phone number, followed by a short message:
Chickened out last time, but better late than never – Happy Valentine’s Day.
Has to reread it three times before it fully sinks in.
She can’t hide her excitement this time, is positively beaming when she turns back around to wait for their drinks.
“Don’t say anything,” Samira mumbles with faux seriousness, her entire face still lit up by her smile but unable to look her friend in the eye just yet. The paper is tucked safe in the pocket of her coat, but she still slips her hand in a few times to make sure it’s still there.
“Wasn’t going to,” Trinity says, holding her hands up in self-defence. “Just … happy Valentine’s to you, I guess.”
“Trinity—”
“I didn’t say anything!”