He arched an eyebrow but didn’t push for me to give my name. “Okay, I’ll call you Red.”

“And you’re Captain for me. Cap, for short, obviously. I—”

“Holy shit!” Captain barked, breaking his stare away from me, grabbing our drinks, and dashing off to the left of the room, leaving me standing there dazed and confused. As I followed his movements, the situation became more clear as he slid into a booth being vacated by two Tinker Bells and a Peter Pan. The way Captain claimed that spot made me smile. A certain amount of pride flooded his face as he puffed out his chest and patted the seat beside him.

I walked over and slid into the booth, leaving a bit of space between us even though an odd part of me wanted to move in closer.

“Based on us not learning each other’s names, I get the feeling I’m not going to get your number at the end of the night.”

I shook my head. “Probably not, no.”

“Okay. So that means whatever we say tonight is probably the last things we’ll ever say to one another.”

“Yes.”

“So…” He leaned in closer to me and swiped his thumb against his bottom lip as his eyes sparkled with intrigue. “What was the happiest thing that happened to you this year?”

I laughed. “That’s a big question.”

“I need to ask the big questions now, because I won’t get to ask them ever again. I think it’s important in life to ask the big questions when you do get a chance.”

My stomach fluttered with nerves as I shifted a bit in my seat. He was asking me to be an open book to him for the evening, and most of the time, my thoughts were like a locked diary. Only I had the key, and I never shared it with anyone else. Honestly, no one seemed interested enough to read said thoughts.

But still, I told him. I didn’t know if it was due to my buzz or the intrigue of him, but I opened up and shared.

“I got an internship at my dream job. It’s a very underpaid and underappreciated internship, but I figured now that I have my foot in the door, I can maybe move my way up to be a junior editor at the magazine.”

“A junior editor? So you’re a writer?”

“A wannabe writer. I’m getting my degree in journalism and hope to someday get myself to a senior editor position.”

“You will.”

He said the two words with such certainty that I almost believed him.

“I don’t know. It’s a very competitive industry, especially in New York.”

“Do you love it? Writing?”

“Yes.”

“Then the competitive nature doesn’t matter. If you have a dream, fight for it.”

“Other people are fighting for the same dream, too, though.”

He leaned back against the seat and lay his arm across the top of it. “If you think about others trying to get your dream, you’re wasting your energy on the things that don’t matter. The only real estate in your mind should be you and your dream. Life is short. We don’t have the time to look at what other people are doing. That sidetracks us from our destiny.”

I smiled. “You must have a dream of your own.”

He glanced around the bar and shook his head. “Have you been on the rooftop of this building?”

“No, never.”

“It has one of the best views. I come here at least once a week just to breathe up there and clear my mind.” He stood, lifting his drink, and held his hand out toward me.

I raised a brow. “You just bulldozed through the crowd to get this booth, and you’re telling me you’re willing to give it up to go stand on the roof?”

“Sometimes you have to move when your soul tells you to move,” he replied.

“Which philosopher said that?”

He bit the corner of his bottom lip and shrugged. “I did.”

Impressive.

He held his hand out toward me again. “Come on. Do you trust me?”

“When people ask ‘Do you trust me?’, it instantly makes me trust them a lot less.”

“Good, as you should. I’m a complete damn stranger. Trust is earned, and I haven’t earned it. Still, I want to show you the rooftop.”

I knew it was idiotic, but still, I wanted to go.

I prayed the pepper spray in my bra wouldn’t have to be pulled out that night as I took his hand with mine. The moment our palms met, a wave of warmth shot through my system, as if holding his hand was the most natural thing I’d done in quite a while.

He pulled me through the crowded space, and every now and again, I’d look down at our connected hands. After being broken up with, you missed the small things: laughing with your other half, cuddling, holding hands.

It was funny how holding hands felt like such a small feat in the relationship, yet you missed it more than words when it was gone.