Chapter Text
The lonely city.
Yaz doesn’t remember where she first heard it, but she finds it to be a fitting epithet for the place she now calls home. Or, she would call it home, if it felt any closer to one.
Four weeks gone and New York is still a stranger to her. Too many people, all of them faceless. Too many buildings, all of them identical. They’re not, really. Not even slightly. Only, Yaz hasn’t yet bothered to take the time to acquaint herself with them. So she just sees grey.
January’s misery has leached her thirst for adventure; in its stead, ice pumps through her veins. It numbs her. It slows her down. She thaws only in her apartment, but never completely (those long, soot-dark nights are forever sniffing out the gaps in her drapes and the slats between her curtains, that they might ooze through them and pool onto her floor boards. They stick to the soles of her feet like tar. Unaware, Yaz treads them through every empty room, convinced they’re following her—those awful nights and their unbearable shadows. She doesn’t think to wonder if she might be the one letting them in. She lights more candles instead).
Aside from that, her life is work. And work is good. Work is booming. Work is the reason she moved way across the pond and dumped herself in the cold heart of a cold city during the coldest month of the year. But, if anybody asks, she isn’t bitter about it.
“Yeah, right,” Ryan scoffs through the phone. “Mate, if you were really enjoying yourself up there, you wouldn’t be belling me every single night just for something to do. You’d be out having fun. Seeing the sights. Waving to Lady Liberty and flipping off the Trump tower.”
“I’ve seen some of the sights,” Yaz argues, absently scooting aside hangers on a thrift store clearance rack without paying much mind to the clothes hanging from them. She didn’t come here to shop—just to kill some time. “I saw a huge rat the other day when I were takin’ out my rubbish. Shoulda seen it, it were like the size of a cat. Defo don’t get ‘em like that in Sheffield.”
“That is so far from what I meant and you know it.”
Yaz peels away from the rack with a sigh. “Yeah, look, I know what you meant. I’ve just been busy, Ryan. You should see what my workload looks like these days, and the amount of bloody deadlines I have to keep to. Especially with this show comin’ up. I’ve got a lot of people relyin’ on me. A lot of eyes watchin’ everythin’ I do. It’s insane.”
“Wait, you’re not flaking on today though, are you? ‘Cause it’s a bit last minute. They’re probably already—“
“Relax, I’m not flaking.”
“Good, ‘cause you bloody need this. Human interaction, mate. Face to face. It’s good for your health.”
Yaz leans against the closest solid surface without bothering to gauge what it is. Across the shop, through the glass facade, shoppers and tourists are out in full swing: a writhing mass snaking through the veins of the city. The idea of going back out there and contending with the current makes her stomach revolt with unease.
It’s one of the first times she’s left her apartment except for work and essentials in a month, and she only agreed to it to sate Ryan’s constant concerns for her well-being (which, to be fair, are all pretty valid. Three thousand miles away and he still knows when his best friend is feeling low).
“You’ve still not even told me anythin’ about ‘em, though,” Yaz points out. “Nothin’ except that they’re a family friend.”
“Kind of the whole point, Yaz. It’s a blind date. I know you’ve been dipping out of the social scene lately, but you do remember what one of those is, don’t you?”
“Don’t be a nob,” Yaz mutters.
Ryan laughs. “Look, you know their name. That’s more than enough to be getting on with.”
That’s right, she knows their name.
Jonah.
Yaz thinks it’s a nice name, likes the way it rolls off the tongue, but it doesn’t give much away.
“Could at least tell me what they look like? The colour of their hair? Eyes? Height? How am I supposed to know who I’m lookin’ for when I get there?”
“You’ll just know.”
“Oh, brilliant. Cheers, Ryan.”
“Yeah, you’ll be thanking me when you finally get some action for the first time in god knows how long though, won’t you?”
“Ryan,” cringes Yaz.
Before she has a chance to properly chew him out for his overfamiliarity, the surface she’s leaning all her weight on turns to thin air. Her heart lurches, she loses balance; her flailing hands clutch desperately at nothing. She screws her eyes shut and braces herself for impact.
Impact is sooner, and softer, than she anticipates.
Warily, Yaz peels one eye open.
There’s a face peering down at her—a very agreeable face, Yaz notes in passing. A faintly amused smile tugs at the corners of their soft pink lips, and there’s an innate kindness to it which steeps their pale complexion in warmth (as with their eyes; they glint golden at her through the clear lenses of their horn rimmed glasses).
Falling from beneath a wool beanie, locks of soft blonde hair frame a sharp jaw and sharper cheekbones, which Yaz can’t help but both envy and admire.
Like that, a scattering of forgotten chrysalises hanging from Yaz’s ribs break open. New life emerges; flutters its technicolour wings and takes flight.
“Hiya,” comes the cheery voice of the perfect stranger holding Yaz in their arms. “Have a nice trip?”
Yaz’s face flushes with colour.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologises hastily, pulling herself up by the frame of the door (door. She was leaning against a door ) and holding her phone to her ear. “Sorry, Ryan. Gotta go. Call you later.”
“Not if you get luck—“
Yaz hangs up and pockets her phone. The stranger is still standing in the doorway to the small, wooden changing room cubicle they appeared from. They’re watching Yaz with a curious tilt of their head.
“Again, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise what I were leanin’ against,” Yaz admits, burying her hands into the pockets of her faux-fur coat. “Thanks for catchin’ me, though.”
They frown at Yaz. “Your accent—you’re from home?”
For the first time, Yaz picks up on the undeniable Yorkshire lilt to their voice.
“Um. Yeah. Sheffield born and bred,” she reveals, much of her focus suddenly diverted by their outfit.
For the most part, it’s nothing outlandish. From the belt loops of black skinny jeans, which graze the hind labels of yellow-laced Doc Martens, hangs a thick chain embellished with silver charms: a book, a plane, the number thirteen, a dog, and a few others Yaz can’t make out. They’re also wearing a blue, sherpa-lined denim jacket, which is totally covered with patches.
Yaz almost misses the non-binary flag ironed onto their breast, easy as it would be to overlook it for the waving alien, or the heart-shaped planet Earth, or the ‘Can I pet your dog?’ patch on their right shoulder—to list a few. Yaz’s personal favourite detail, though, is the embroidery on their back. She notices it in the changing room mirror behind them: a huge sunflower, spanning from the bottom of the jacket to just beneath the collar.
Everything about them screams effortlessly trendy.
Almost.
Upon following Yaz’s intrigued gaze, they glance down at their attire and purse their lips.
“Too weird?” they ask, pinching the fabric of their sweater between their fingers. It must be something they’ve picked up in the shop—a clearly vintage, oversized jumper with the smiling, yellow face of a golden retriever embroidered onto the chest. For reasons Yaz can’t begin to hazard, the phrase, ‘World’s Greatest Grandpa’ has been sewn beneath the dog’s lolling tongue.
“Well, I mean, that really depends on your usual threshold for weirdness,” Yaz responds by way of avoiding the question.
What she doesn’t say is that she reckons they’re probably the only person in the universe who can pull it off.
“It’s for a date,” they wince. “I spilled coffee all over the shirt I were gonna wear—proper ace shirt. My absolute fave. Wanted to look my best, ‘cause, well, first impressions count, don’t they? But I were so distracted thinkin’ about the date that I walked right into someone carryin’ a tray full of coffees. Most of it went down them, to be fair. They weren’t best pleased. But my shirt got absolutely ruined, and I don’t have time to go home and grab another one, ‘cause I’m s’posed to be meetin’ ‘em soon, and I were gonna buy flowers, but now I’m not gonna have time, and I can’t make my mind up about this jumper, ‘cause what if they don’t like puppies? Which would be insane. Who doesn’t like puppies? That’s a huge red flag. Maybe I should wear the jumper just to gauge their stance on dogs. I’d rather know from the get go, to be honest. Can’t get too attached to a dog-hater. What d’you think?”
Yaz blinks. “Um—“
“Whereas you look like you’ve just stepped right off the catwalk!” they blunder on without waiting for a reply, gesturing helplessly at Yaz’s outfit. “Look at you, in your silky, knee-length fur coat and your cool white trainers and—are those slacks tailored? And that shirt. Looks new. Is it new?”
“Actually—“
“Can you help me?” they plead, clasping their hands together. “I’m hopeless. Properly hopeless. Pretend it’s you. Pretend I’m goin’ on a date with you. Would you want me to show up like this or would you take one look at me and turn around? Be honest. I can take it. Cross my heart.”
The butterflies behind Yaz’s ribs stir again. She thinks about her own date, and briefly entertains how she would feel if this were the person Ryan set her up with.
She can’t imagine being disappointed.
Still, Yaz remarks, not everyone is as endeared to the bizarre as she; she can’t, in good faith, encourage them to wear such an abomination to a first date. She’d only feel bad about it all day.
“Wait here,” she says.
It only takes a few minutes of perusing the racks in the store for Yaz to find an appropriate alternative; all the while, their new acquaintance shadows them anxiously, wringing their hands behind their back and chewing their bottom lip.
“What size are you?” asks Yaz, checking the label.
“Small in men’s.”
“Perfect.” Turning around, she presents them with a plain, yellow hoodie. “Try this.”
They regard the garment as if Yaz were holding up her middle finger. “Um. But it’s just—it’s just a hoodie. There aren’t even any dogs on it.”
Rolling her eyes, Yaz rests her hand on their shoulder—not missing the way they turn and gawk openly at it for several seconds—and steers them back toward the changing room.
“Trust me, I do this for a livin’,” says Yaz.
“You work here?”
“I’m a fashion designer.”
Their jaw falls open and they stop before the changing room door, eyeing Yaz from head to toe as if in a new light.
“Well, no wonder y’look so good.”
The tips of Yaz’s ears begin to burn; she wishes she’d hid them behind her hair rather than keep it in a bun.
But if they notice the darkening of her skin, they opt not to comment. Rather, they tear off their denim jacket, thrust it into Yaz’s hands, and exchange it for the hoodie. They don’t bother closing the changing room door.
“How’s that for fate, eh?” they muse, plucking the beanie from their ruffled hair and hooking it on the door. When they yank the vintage sweater off by the back of its collar, their undershirt rides up. Yaz tries not to stare at their navel or the band of their boxers.
“Fate?” she asks hoarsely, before clearing her throat. She could do with a glass of water.
“Yeah. Runnin’ into a fashion designer when I’ve a fashion emergency on my hands. Know what that tells me? The universe really, really wants this date to go well.” They pull the hoodie down over their body and smooth down any creases in the mirror. Their countenance grows thoughtful. “But it’s a bit odd, too.”
Yaz hands them their jacket. “What’s odd?”
“The universe sendin’ me a really pretty fashion designer right before my date. Not very fair, is it?”
Brows lifting, Yaz fails to catch their eye in the mirror; they’re too concerned with wrestling the hood out from under their jacket and fixing the beanie back on their head.
“Y’know, I’m actually goin’ on a date, too,” Yaz divulges.
At that, they turn to face her. There’s a look in their eye that Yaz can’t place, and they’re standing close enough that their cologne—subtle and laced with warm spices—intoxicates her just a little. It’s a feeling which both perplexes and titillates Yaz.
Ryan was right about one thing: she must be starving for human interaction.
“Well,” they begin, “then that’s double not fair, isn’t it?”
Yaz doesn’t know what to say to that, and she doesn’t know how to feel about the way they’re studying her face so closely, so she drops her gaze and nods at their outfit.
“How d’you like it, then?” she asks. “Yellow and black are always a decent combo. Plus, it goes with your laces. And the sunflower on your back.”
“Does it bring out my eyes, too?”
When Yaz lifts her gaze, she divines an unfurling roguery corrupting their features (though they’re no less lovely for it). They wink at her. Yaz pretends not to be affected.
“Should you really be stood here flirtin’ with other people when you’ve a date to get to?” she teases.
Their face falls.
“No,” they mumble, brows drifting inward. “No, you’re right. That’s awful of me, isn’t it? For all I know, the last great love of my life is already waitin’ out there for me. Could be an early bird, couldn’t they? I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about ‘em. Yet . And here I am, dismissin’ ‘em for the first pretty human I see. Well. No. Not the first, just the prettiest. Oh—sorry. Flirtin’ again. Can’t help it sometimes. The words just pour out of me faster than I can stop ‘em.”
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ that,” laughs Yaz. She isn’t complaining. “For what it’s worth, I think they’d be an idiot not to fall in love with you on the spot.”
They beam broadly at her, all perfect teeth and meekly hunched shoulders.
“It’s worth a lot, actually.”
Yaz can’t help but smile back; it only wavers when she notices that their glasses are sitting wonky atop their nose. Unthinking, she steps forward to readjust them, slipping a finger beneath the fabric of their beanie to sit the arm of their glasses on their ear properly. Are their ears warm because of the beanie, or is there another reason altogether? Yaz can’t say, but she doesn’t think they breathe the whole time.
She steps back. “Sorry. Didn’t think you’d wanna show up with wonky glasses.”
“No, yeah. ‘Course not. Totally.” They pause and pull their bottom lip between their teeth. “Thank you. For everythin’.”
Catching Yaz entirely off guard, they swoop forward to envelop her in a grateful embrace which is as tight as it is fleeting. No sooner does Yaz think to reciprocate than they’re already withdrawing, their cheeks a touch pinker than they were a moment ago.
“Anyway…” They push their glasses further up their nose and take a step back. “Better go pay for this. Got a hot date to get to.”
“Yeah, I better go, too,” says Yaz, ignoring the remorse weighing heavy on her chest as she begins to inch towards the exit. “Good luck, though.”
“And you.”
“Try to let ‘em get a word in edgewise, yeah?”
They duck their head and laugh. “Yeah. Good advice.”
“And bin ‘em if they’re a dog hater.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice.”
With nothing else to be said, Yaz flashes a brief wave and they flash one back. A hesitant look passes between them, and Yaz thinks they might be thinking the same thing as she is: that this might have been something else under different circumstances, did they not each have their own way to go.
Then again, she might just be seeing what she wants to see.
Yaz leaves.
It isn’t until she’s halfway down the street, flanked on all sides by a rushing river of bodies and traffic, that she realises she never got their name.
Their agreed rendezvous, arranged through Ryan, is a small café a stone’s throw from Central Park. Like much of this vast city, Yaz isn’t familiar with it. She relies on her phone’s maps to guide the way, but still gets turned around a few times and ends up running late.
In all honesty, the closer she draws, the more she drags her feet. The cold cuts even through her leather gloves and warm coat, and she longs for the central heating of her apartment; for her plush sofa, cosy blankets, and the latest trashy Netflix show she’s been binge watching. That, or her desk and sketchbook. A piping mug of British tea. Pens and brushes and paint—and her muse in abundance.
She doesn’t expect much from the date. While Ryan only has the kindest of intentions, his taste has always been questionable at best (hence why he’s currently dating her sister).
Still, she made a promise.
And anyway, she thinks, it’s just an hour. One hour—and then I can make my excuses, go back to my apartment, and tell him I tried.
When her phone announces her arrival, Yaz lifts her eyes from the sidewalk for the first time in ten minutes. Across the road to her right, over the top of a long line of yellow cabs, is the park. A tall metal gate and a sparse row of trees inhibit her view of it.
But, coming up on her left, there’s a mug-shaped sign hanging from the brick exterior of a generic looking coffee shop. Yaz comes to an abrupt stop.
Sitting at one of the outdoor tables, scribbling maniacally in a compact, tattered notebook with one leg propped up on the opposite chair, is the very same stranger she’d helped dress in the thrift shop.
Surely not.
Oblivious to Yaz’s arrival, they put their pen down and flex out their writing hand with a grimace. They’ve since pulled on a pair of fingerless gloves; their bright pink fingertips are stained with ink already. Yaz wonders what they’re writing.
It isn’t until they reach for their to-go coffee cup and take a sip that their eyes finally find Yaz’s over the rim. They freeze. A second passes. They swallow their mouthful.
Remembering her feet (and realising that she’s just been caught staring), Yaz closes the remaining distance between them.
“Fancy meetin’ you here,” she quips, and then instantly regrets it. Only a month and New York is already turning her into a walking cliché.
Their bemusement doesn’t subside until Yaz is hardly a pace away. When it does, they snap their book shut, slip it into their pocket, and spring to their feet. In their haste, they almost knock over the table and reflexively reach out to still it before they end up wearing their coffee. Again.
“Um.” They glance toward the table. Finding it to be steady, they straighten up and take a step toward Yaz. “Hi. Again. Did you—no offence, but are you stalkin’ me? Don’t get me wrong, I’m very flattered, but I thought I’d made it especially clear that I’m goin’ on a date. Mind you, they are runnin’ a tad late, but I’m sure there’s a good reason for it. Maybe they stopped to pet a really cute dog. Or help an old lady cross the street. Or tie their laces. Can’t hold that against ‘em, can I? My laces are always comin’ undone.”
Yaz presses her lips to suppress a laugh. “I don’t suppose your name’s Jonah, is it?”
They open and then close their mouth. Brows sink and gears turn—slowly, slowly, slowly. Yaz waits patiently for realisation to dawn.
“Yaz?” they eventually click on.
“Bingo.”
“No way,” they drawl, raking their wide eyes over Yaz. “I don’t believe it. What are the odds of that? Are you sure?”
“Sure of my own name?” Yaz pretends to consider. “Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I last referred to my birth certificate. Maybe I’m mistaken.”
An untempered grin lights up Jonah’s face. “Sarcasm! Oh, I miss sarcasm. It’s just so English. Americans hate it, don’t they? They always give you such a weird look. I’ve had to learn to censor myself a bit around ‘em. Well, I’ve not learned yet. I do try. Well, sometimes I do. Point is—wait, what was my point?”
“I don’t think you had one, mate.”
“No, yes, I did. My point, Yaz, is that I’m very happy to officially meet you.” Jonah sticks out their hand.
Yaz takes it and gives it an uncertain shake. It’s been a while, but she doesn’t remember the last time she started a date with a handshake. Maybe Jonah’s trying to tell her something.
“You’re not disappointed that it’s me?” she frets.
“C’mon, Yaz. After my earlier display, I think we both know I’m not.” An easy smile finds purchase on their lips, quelling Yaz’s concerns without a lick of effort. Then they start as if they’ve just been poked with a cattle prod and swipe a second coffee cup from the table. “Almost forgot! I got you a drink. Ryan told me your usual. He’s great, isn’t he? Soon as he told me there were a woman I had to meet, I knew I were in for somethin’ special. He’s got great taste.”
Looking at Jonah now, Yaz finds herself disregarding her doubts and wholeheartedly agreeing. She thanks them for the coffee and takes it from their hands. After picking up their own, alongside a small backpack Yaz hadn’t noticed propped against their chair, they nod towards the park.
“Fancy a walk, then?” they propose, slinging the backpack over their shoulder. “Unless—wait, you’re not disappointed, are you? I’ll be honest, I had a hard time readin’ you back there in the shop. You don’t half keep your cards close to your chest. Unlike me. Spillin’ em everywhere. Ever wanna make a quick quid, just challenge me to a game of poker. I’ve a feelin’ you’re good at it. But I’d thrash you at snap. Oh, believe me, I’m brutal.”
“Remember what I sad about lettin’ your date get a word in?” jokes Yaz. She starts towards the zebra crossing and Jonah follows.
“Sorry, I know. But you’re not, right? Disappointed?”
“No, Jonah. I’m not.”
Jonah’s heartened grin coincides with a parting in the clouds. The city brightens beneath an opening of arctic blue sky and pale sunlight, but Yaz is inclined to credit it to their smile.
Beyond the gates, Central Park glitters with frost. The trees are bare and still as death, and silver-lined leaves carpet their path. In spite of the temperature, almost every bench is occupied. Swathes of people meander about the park: businessmen taking lunch, joggers braving the biting chill, parents pushing strollers, couples holding hands, and lots of dog walkers.
Jonah doesn’t even try to resist their urge to pet every dog they pass, nor do they exhibit any qualms about striking up breezy conversations with their owners—mostly about their own dog, whom they claim to already miss sorely after only a couple of hours apart.
And, god, can they talk. They talk so much Yaz puzzles over how they don’t run out of words, or air, or excitement.
Yaz finds it hard to mind.
Their bubbly disposition isn’t just charming, it’s contagious. Her steps feel lighter when she walks beside Jonah, her laugh is freer when it harmonises with theirs, and her heart beats a touch softer than it has for a while.
They end up finding a relatively smooth boulder at the top of a short hill to sit down on, which overlooks the path below and grants them a threadbare semblance of privacy behind a scattering of naked trees.
Yaz and Jonah are swapping stories from home; reminiscing about school (it turns out they went to the same high school, only Jonah left a couple of years before Yaz started), the popular hangout spots they each used to frequent growing up, and the pub that was infamous for serving just about anybody with a fake ID. Yaz is shocked at how many of the same places they visited; wonders if they ever crossed paths before—two ships passing in the night. But then, she’s sure she would have noticed someone like Jonah. Noticed and not soon forgotten.
“Crazy that we’d meet now instead of back then, isn’t it?” muses Jonah, yanking tufts of grass from the earth and sprinkling them on Yaz’s shoes. “Amount of times we probably just missed each other. It’s a strange old world.”
Leaning back on her palms, Yaz watches a little girl in a bright yellow mac run ahead of her parents on the walkway beneath them, laughing in the way only children laugh—with abandon. The giddy music she makes carries like a breeze through the trees and the frozen grass.
“I think it’s kinda cool,” she says. “The idea that we spent so long only a few miles apart, revolving around each other without ever meeting, until we both just… catapulted out of orbit.”
“And crash landed on the same planet,” Jonah finishes. They laugh so quietly that Yaz might’ve missed it if not for the way it crystallises in the cold air.
“What’s funny?”
Jonah dusts off their hands and sits back. “You ever watch E.T.?”
“Yeah,” frowns Yaz. “Why?”
“Well, it’s kinda felt a bit like I’m an alien out here all these years. New culture. New life. Strange faces. Don’t get me wrong, I like it, but there are times when you can’t help but miss the world you came from. When you can’t help but miss home.” They sweep their eyes across Yaz. “Now, it’s kinda like home came to me. A little slice of it. It’s just nice, that’s all.”
“Would’ve been a much different movie if E.T. phoned home and home sent a girl instead of a spaceship,” remarks Yaz.
“True, but maybe E.T. wouldn’t have wanted to leave so much if he had a pretty alien on his arm.”
“Didn’t he almost die?”
“You’re kinda missin’ the point.”
“What point?”
“I think you’re really pretty.”
“...Oh.”
Yaz chews the inside of her cheek and stares at her trainers, which are still covered in brittle grass where Jonah piled it on. She shakes them clean. Jonah studies her. She can’t think of a single thing to say.
“Did I overstep?” worries Jonah. “I have a habit of doin’ that, apparently. I don’t wanna weird you out, I just—“
“You didn’t weird me out,” insists Yaz. “I actually wanted to call you pretty, too, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be offended.”
“Offended?”
Yaz glances at the non binary patch on their jacket.
“Ah,” says Jonah. “Well, allow me to verbally grant you blanket permission to call me pretty whenever you see fit. I’ll also take handsome. Ravishing. Irresistible. Sculpted by the gods thems—“
“Humble, too?” cracks Yaz.
“Of course. Never anythin’ but.”
Yaz hugs her knees and hides her smile behind them, but her eyes must give her away if the conspiratorial wink Jonah shoots her is any indicator.
A rustling overhead prompts them both to look up.
Perched on the branch of a tree directly above them is a plump bird with bright red plumage and a black face. It cocks its head, fixes a beady eye on them, and begins to whistle.
“A Northern Cardinal,” whispers Jonah. “Listen, it almost sounds like it’s singin’ the word ‘pretty’ over and over again.”
Indeed, when Yaz listens hard enough, the individual syllables of the cardinal’s birdsong take the precise shape Jonah said they would. Yaz can’t decide whether it’s a cute or creepy coincidence.
“Be honest, did you pay this bird to do that?”
Jonah grins. “Must’ve heard us talkin’.”
They plunge their hand into the wallet pocket of their jacket and then, to Yaz’s astonishment, pull out a full handful of loose birdseed.
“Jonah, why the f—“
“Shh. Watch.”
Jonah scatters some of the seeds onto the grass beside the boulder and then they both sit and wait in perfect silence. Yaz puts a pin in her concerns regarding the contents of Jonah’s pockets for the time being, though she has every intention of circling back to them, and joins Jonah in watching their feathered visitor.
It hops from side to side on its branch, deliberating. Neither Yaz nor Jonah so much as twitch a muscle. After a long, strangely tense moment (and lots of nervous tweeting), the bird hops off its branch and swoops toward the grass.
It lands mere centimetres from Jonah’s thigh, pecking at the seeds and keeping an eye on them at all times. Jonah slowly curls open their fist. A second heap of birdseed lies upon their palm.
The cardinal lifts its head. Freezes. Stares at Jonah’s offering.
By the time Yaz blinks, the bird has alighted on one of Jonah’s fingers. It gobbles the birdseed fast, wary of Jonah and the trust it places in them. Jonah doesn’t even breathe. It surprises Yaz that they even have it in them to sit so still; to entice something so fragile, so hollow-boned and vulnerable, into their open hand.
“You are a beautiful thing,” Jonah croons in a cadence as delicate as the smallest feather on its folded wings. When their voice doesn’t scare it off, they press on, emboldened. “How’re the skies today, eh? Much traffic?”
The bird keeps feeding.
Undeterred by its silence, Jonah asks, “Have you got a name?”
“I don’t think it’s gonna answer you, Jonah,” Yaz chimes in, though she can’t deny how endearing a picture they make.
“He,” Jonah corrects. “Can tell by the colour of his feathers. How ‘bout you name him, Yaz?”
“Me?”
“Go on, what d’you reckon?”
Yaz considers the bird. His candy red feathers catch a thin sliver of chilled sunlight; when he ducks his head to peck a sunflower seed from Jonah’s glove, the spotlight lands on a small black spot above his eye.
“How about Pepper?” proposes Yaz.
“Pepper,” Jonah repeats, lips stretching thin and wide. “Yeah. Little Pepper. Suits him. What d’you think, mate? Like it?”
Pepper chirps and hops onto a different finger.
“He loves it,” laughs Jonah. “Yaz, can you grab my phone out of my pocket? I want a picture but I don’t wanna move and scare him off.”
“Which pocket?”
“In my jeans. Closest to you.”
Ensuring she avoids making any sudden movements, Yaz shuffles up closer to Jonah and nestles her hand into their pocket. Her fingers slide underneath the phone and along Jonah’s leg, and they make eye contact, and that’s a mistake.
Something wicked is embedded in Jonah’s eyes, preserved like a wasp in amber—wings mid-flight and sting poised to strike. Yaz might like to prick her finger on it.
Puckish intent eclipses Jonah’s voice when they mutter, “Just a little deeper.”
“You definitely planned this,” Yaz accuses.
“That’s right. I came to the park extra early this mornin’ so me and Pepper could scheme ways to have my date feel me up.”
Pepper cocks his head.
“I am not feelin’ you up,” Yaz refutes.
“Your hand’s still in my pocket, Yaz.”
Huffing petulantly, Yaz closes her hand around Jonah’s phone and yanks it out. She holds it up to Jonah’s face to unlock it, pulls up the camera, and sets it on them.
“Better hurry,” urges Jonah. “I feel a sneeze comin’ on.”
“Hold it,” Yaz instructs.
Jonah’s nose twitches. Yaz waits for the camera to focus. Their nose twitches some more.
“Yaz…”
“Hang on, Pepper keeps blurring.”
Yaz taps the screen until Pepper’s feathers sharpen. The moment her thumb descends upon the button, Jonah’s restraint disintegrates.
They sneeze so violently, and with such sheer volume, that even Yaz flinches away from them. Birdseed flies out of their hand and lands in their hair and on their beanie, and Pepper launches into the air in a flurry of feathers, darting between the branches and making like a bullet for the sky.
“Bless me,” cringes Jonah, watching Pepper disappear from view with a crestfallen pout. “Ah, well. Safe travels, buddy.”
Yaz, meanwhile, is in hysterics. She captured the exact moment of Jonah’s almighty sneeze: full-face grimace, mouth wide open, head shrinking into their neck. On their palm, Pepper’s wings are already unfurling and birdseed is suspended in the air.
“Oh, no. Gimme that,” demands Jonah, lunging for their phone.
“Wait, no!” Yaz falls back and stretches her hand as far from Jonah’s reach as possible as they clamber over her in an attempt to steal it back. “You can’t delete it, it’s brilliant!”
“I can and I will,” rebuts Jonah, grunting when their fingers fall just short of the phone. “Yaz!”
“Promise me you won’t delete it!”
Jonah makes a frustrated sound. “Fine!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ll send it to you, okay? Cross my bloody heart.”
Jonah tries to swipe the phone again but Yaz moves her hand away just in time.
“I just said—“
“You don’t have my number,” argues Yaz.
Jonah stops struggling. Half-straddling one of Yaz’s legs, they arch a sculpted brow at her. “I will.”
Disarmed by their assuredness, Yaz doesn’t even think to try and fend them off the next time they make a grab for their phone. They tear it from her grasp and lift off her, pulling a face when they get a good look at the picture Yaz took.
“Blimey, I’ve got about twenty chins in this,” they grumble.
“Sculpted by the gods themselves, I’m sure.”
“Sculpted by the American diet, more like. Speaking of—“ Jonah pats their stomach— “you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
A short time later, after wandering the park awhile, they come by a food truck selling pastries and pretzels. Jonah is adamant that it’s the best in New York. In America. In the world.
The vendor greets them as if they’re an old friend, and so commences another lengthy conversation. Once Jonah is all caught up on the well-being of his wife and kids, and how his home renovation is coming along, and what his plans are for the entire year to come, they finally remember their appetite.
“I’ll just get my usual, if you wouldn’t mind, mate.” They turn to Yaz. “And you? Hang on, lemme guess. I’m usually wicked at this. You strike me as savoury over sweet, right? No nonsense; no frills and bows. You want… a soft cinnamon pretzel! Yeah?”
“Spot on,” laughs Yaz (but the truth is, they suggest it with so much enthusiasm that Yaz would have agreed no matter what they’d said).
Jonah punches the air triumphantly.
Moments later, the vendor slides across two pretzels—one cinnamon, and one a heart attack’s wet dream. It’s dusted with sugar, sprinkled with chocolate and fudge, and glazed with a healthy dose of syrup.
“God, I feel ill just lookin’ at that thing,” Yaz cringes as they walk away, watching Jonah take a healthy bite out of their pretzel.
“Mm, s’delicious,” they hum without swallowing. Their eyes are lidded as if they’ve been unashamedly seduced by the sweet palate of diabetes. “I never come through here without gettin’ one of these bad boys. Which is, y’know, basically every day for the past five years. I love comin’ to the park. Feels like the only place in the city where you can get a breath of fresh air. Speakin’ of—how long have you lived here now?”
“About a month,” answers Yaz. She averts her eyes. “To be honest, I’ve not seen much of it. In fact, this is the first time I’ve even stepped into Central Park.”
Jonah stops; whirls on the spot. “ What ? But—Yaz, a whole month and you’ve never even been to Central Park? What on Earth have you been doin’ with your time?”
“I’ve been busy,” Yaz shrugs.
Incredulous doesn’t begin to describe Jonah’s expression. Graciously, when they notice Yaz’s suddenly abashed demeanour, their features soften.
“Well, in a way, I guess I should feel honoured.” They take another bite of their pretzel and nudge Yaz’s shoulder with their own. “I get to be your first.”
Yaz arches a brow at the innuendo. “In that case, let’s hope you know what you’re doin’.”
“Oh, I know my way around a pretty thing.”
“Hope you’re on about the park.”
“What else?”
They exchange whispering smiles.
By the time they approach Bethesda Terrace, their pretzels are gone (Jonah finishes Yaz’s when she takes too long to eat it) and Jonah is vibrating with the extra energy the copious sugar gives them. They skip through the colonnades and swing around one of the pillars, gazing with reverence at the polished, amber ceiling in which their own reflection smiles back at them.
There’s a touch of reverence caught in Yaz’s eye, too, but it isn’t for the architecture.
“I love it here,” Jonah sighs. When they realise Yaz has kept walking, they abruptly push away from the pillar and jog after her. “So, um, can I ask what’s kept you so busy that you can’t even take a walk through the park?”
“Just work,” says Yaz, and it’s only half a lie.
“Right. Fashion designer,” Jonah recalls as they emerge from the terrace.
Beyond it, a huge, circular fountain with a stone angel for a centrepiece sits in the centre of a vast courtyard. Past its wings, Yaz glimpses a partly-frozen lake which she reckons is great for gondolas and canoes in the summertime. There are people sitting on the fountain’s ledge, on benches lining the outskirts of the courtyard; on the stairwells fringing the terrace. Yaz and Jonah find a free bench to claim.
“It’s funny, actually,” Jonah goes on as they sit down a short distance apart, “I were readin’ this art and culture magazine the other day—I read lots of magazines about lots of different things, keeps the mind occupied—and there were this article about a huge fashion designer who’d moved up here from England; said they’re unveilin’ some proper swanky new collection at a big show soon. Come to think of it, her name’s a lot like yours, too. Yasmin, I think. Yasmin Khan. Don’t ask me how I remember. Steel trap memory. It’s a blessin’ and a curse. But what a coincidence! Have you heard of ‘em?”
Yaz gives them a waiting look.
“Wait a minute…” Jonah’s eyes snap wide open. “Yaz, short for—short for Yasmin? Yasmin Khan?”
“‘Fraid so,” admits Yaz, following a nervous laugh.
It isn’t the first time somebody’s recognised her name—in fact, it’s happening more and more lately—but she’s still no surer of how to act when it happens. Nor does she know how to feel when she walks down the street and notices somebody wearing one of her pieces, or when she receives invitations to style models for fashion week, or when celebrities reach out to her before they’re due to hit the red carpet. It feels like she’s living somebody else’s life.
Success didn’t come to her overnight; Yasmin Khan has worked hard for everything she ever got. And yet, somehow, she never quite feels deserving enough.
“Holy shit!” exclaims Jonah. “But you’re—I mean, you’re, like, properly famous. I think I’ve one of your shirts hangin’ in my wardrobe. Cost a penny, too. Not that I mind. Totally worth it. Almost wore it today, actually, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Would’ve spilled coffee all down it. Sorry, I’m still kind of in shock. You’re Yasmin Khan! I’m on a date with Yasmin Khan! How are you still single? Gorgeous, successful, fashionable. The mind boggles. What are you doin’ sittin’ here with someone like me?”
“I’m hardly famous, Jonah,” refutes Yaz, rubbing her neck self-consciously. Part of her loathes the direction this conversation has taken; part of her is immensely flattered by the way Jonah is gushing about her, even if it is embarrassing.
“Most colourful and exciting new thing to emerge from the fashion world since Versace, they called you. One of the most sought after designers of our time. What else did they say? Oh—“
“Bloody hell, you really do have a steel trap memory,” interrupts Yaz. “Feel free to stop there, yeah? I did read the article.”
Jonah deflates. “Sorry. Am I makin’ you uncomfortable?”
“No, it’s just… I dunno, I just don’t know how to respond to any of that. Besides, like you said, we’re on a date. I’d rather have a conversation with you than listen to you sit there and sing my praises.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. That’s my mistake. I’ve been natterin’ way too much, haven’t I? I’d be lyin’ if I said this weren’t normal but, well, it’s actually a little bit worse right now. You make me really nervous. When I’m nervous, I ramble. When I ramble, people get annoyed. Are you annoyed? It’s all right if you are. I’m used to—“
The moment Yaz puts her hand on Jonah’s, they fall silent.
“I think it’s kinda cute, actually,” Yaz smiles. “If it’s any consolation, you make me a little bit nervous, too.”
“I do?” breathes Jonah.
Yaz nods.
Jonah turns towards the fountain with lips parted and a thousand-yard stare, as if this revelation takes all of their focus to compute. Their eyes cut to Yaz’s hand, and then sharply away again. Yaz can’t remember if their leg has been bouncing this whole time.
“Y’know, if you had a tail, somethin’ tells me it’d be waggin’ like no tomorrow right now,” remarks Yaz.
They adjust their glasses and say nothing. For the first time, they’re tongue-tied. Yaz does her best to work loose the knot.
“Oh, c’mon, you can’t really find it that unbelievable. You’re not exactly hideous yourself, babe.”
Yaz can’t be sure, but—did their breath just catch because she called them babe?
“Jonah—“
“Tell me more about it. Your job,” Jonah blurts. Their cheeks are ruddy and they still won’t look Yaz in the eye. Yaz thinks it’s adorable. “How’d you get into somethin’ like that anyway?”
Yaz leans against the back of the bench and shrugs. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it,” implores Jonah, braving Yaz’s gaze at last. “I know I’ve been carryin’ on with myself, but I really do wanna get to know you. I’ve a feelin’ you’re a woman well worth knowin’, Yasmin Khan, and I’m usually an excellent judge of character.”
They’re so earnest that Yaz finds her usual evasive deflections crumbling to dust upon her tongue. Unlike most people Yaz meets, she actually believes Jonah when they say they want to know her better.
“I actually first got into fashion when I were a teenager,” she begins. “Back then, I—well, I weren’t the most popular kid at school, let’s put it that way. Not to begin with.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
“It’s true. And, y’know, stuff like that gets to you dead easily when you’re young. If people treat you like you’re nothin’, then that’s what you start to believe you are. It just made me feel… it made me feel ugly. Inside and out. And there weren’t anythin’ I could do about how worthless I felt, but there was definitely somethin’ I could do about how well I hid it. How I presented myself to the world.”
Jonah was listening intently, head cocked and brow dimpled. With every slight nod of their head, Yaz felt the words unspooling freer, encouraged by their undivided attention.
“It kinda started as just a few sketches. I mean, I’ve always been pretty into art and crafts and all that, so I started drawing myself how I wished others would see me. Y’know, wearin’ all these incredible outfits and exuding nothin’ but total confidence. It’s so dumb, but I even turned ‘em into these little comics where I was this badass protagonist who everyone wished they could be. And then, one day, I just thought—what’s stoppin’ me? I am the protagonist of my story. I am a badass. What’s stoppin’ me from lettin’ the world know?”
“Oh, I like where this is headed.”
“So, I saved up all my pocket money, and I bought myself a proper sewing machine. I mean, it’s not like I could afford to go out and buy all these expensive, designer clothes. I’d just have to make my own. God, I must’ve spent so many hours over so many nights just sitting up in my room hunched over that bloody machine.”
“Explains the hunchback,” Jonah ribs.
Yaz slaps their arm playfully and they grin.
“Sorry, go on. This is the part where you stride through the school gates in your fur coat and shades and wow everybody into falling at your feet, right?”
“Not quite,” laughs Yaz. “Thing is, I spent all this time makin’ all these clothes—and makin’ sure they were absolutely perfect—but I still didn’t have the confidence to wear ‘em. Not at school, anyway. First time I ever went out wearin’ my own stuff, I just went into town. Alone. Just walked around for ages and put on this completely forced air of confidence.”
“What were you wearin’?”
Yaz scratches her eyebrow. “Well, uh, bear in mind this were about sixteen years ago, and fashion were quite different in 2005 than it is now.”
“Oh, no. The noughties were a fashion disaster.”
“Yep. Picture me, a kid of fourteen, strollin’ around town in embroidered, bootcut jeans and this really bizarre, over the top corset. And there were a beret, too.”
“No,” groans Jonah, burying their face in their hands. “That should be illegal.”
“Look, it’s what were in at the time,” Yaz defends with her palms raised and a smile on her face. “And, y’know somethin’, it bloody worked. For, like, the first time ever, a boy came up to talk to me. Flirted with me. I thought he had me mistaken for someone else at first.”
“Aw, did little Yasmin Khan get a boyfriend?”
Yaz scoffed. “Yeah, right. Think I actually scared him away in the end ‘cause I had no idea how to hold a conversation or maintain eye contact. Anyway, it encouraged me to keep at it. I’d go out—to town, to the cinema, to the library—and I’d wear my homemade outfits and pretend I were some kind of movie star.
And the more I pretended to feel comfortable in my own skin, the more comfortable I actually became. I changed. Found my spine and stopped bein’ this meek, timid little thing.
That’s what people responded to, I think. ‘Cause, at school, people started to pay attention to me even before I found the courage to wear my clothes in front of ‘em. It were the way I carried myself. The way I spoke. It’s not like I suddenly became the most popular girl in school, but people left me alone, for the most part. I guess the clothes helped a little in the end. Guys kept tryna ask me out, people chatted to me in class more; I even had a few girls come up and ask me to make them dresses for prom. Actually, I had my first kiss in year eleven. Izzy Flint. One of the mean girls.”
“So why’d you kiss her?”
“‘Cause I could,” Yaz deadpans.
She can’t tell whether Jonah looks impressed or intimidated.
“The rest is history, really. I enjoyed fashion. I liked the creative aspect of it, and I liked that it became this sort of shield for me, so I stuck with it, worked my arse off, and now here I am.”
“Here you are. On top of the world!” Jonah spreads their arms. “How’s it look from up there, Yaz? Is it beautiful?”
Actually, Yaz wants to say, it’s lonely.
She holds her tongue.
“What about you? What do you do?” she asks instead, hoping to turn the conversation around. “You’ve been talkin’ a mile a minute since I met you, but you’ve not actually told me much.”
“Oh, well, my life’s not quite so glamorous as yours.” Jonah fiddles with the drawstrings of their hoodie. “I’m just a lowly writer.”
“You’re a writer? That’s ace,” enthuses Yaz. “What do you write about?”
Jonah considers. Pulling one foot up onto the bench, they rest their chin on their knee and eye Yaz sidelong.
“Mostly, Yaz, I write about hope. World like this, I think we all could use a little more of it. That’s why I like writin’ happy endings. No matter how dark the story gets, no matter how much hurt the characters go through, my stories are never over until hope prevails.”
“World like this?” Yaz repeats.
“Yeah,” they mutter, and it doesn’t look like they’re willing to give much more than that.
Though Yaz is intrigued by their sudden shift in demeanour, she opts not to pry. They’re near strangers, after all, though it’s so very easy to forget that around Jonah.
“So, why do you write?”
“Because I dream.” Jonah drops their leg and leans back. “I dream all the time, of impossible things, and if I don’t get ‘em down then that’s all they’ll ever be. Impossible dreams. But that’s sad, isn’t it? Dreams should come true. This way, at the very least, I get to share ‘em with the world. Well, I say the world. I’m no Stephen King.”
“I bet you’re an amazin’ writer,” Yaz surmises.
Jonah turns their head. “What makes you say that?”
“You never run out of words,” Yaz states. “Plus, I dunno, you’ve just got this energy. Noticed it the minute I met you. It’s like… I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like if the colour yellow were a person.”
“Yellow’s my favourite colour!”
“Mine, too.” She looks at their hoodie. “You’re wearin’ the proof.”
Jonah’s lips stretch into the kind of toothy smile that thaws Yaz’s icy veins.
“Did you just call me your favourite colour?” they gloat. “That’s really soft. I didn’t have you down as soft.”
Yaz rolls her eyes. “What I were tryna say is that I can imagine what the creative product of that energy looks like. I can imagine it’s rich and captivatin’ and full of life. ‘Cause you are.”
“I’m rich?”
“In spirit.”
Jonah hums. “I like that. You’re good at compliments, anyone ever told you?”
“Not really. Then again, I don’t dole ‘em out to just anyone.”
“So, what you’re sayin’ is, I’m special?”
Jonah bats their eyes comically at Yaz; she tries not to indulge them with a laugh, but it proves difficult (and what a nice feeling that is. After all, laughter has been so hard to come by lately.)
A comfortable quiet befalls them. Together, they sit and watch the world pass them by—and it’s calm. It’s calm in a way Yaz didn’t realise New York could be. She and Jonah: faces in the crowd. Anonymous, invisible, but side by side.
In an obvious effort to put their arm around her, Jonah begins to stretch dramatically. Perhaps Yaz is a little too smug; perhaps her mistake is letting them know she sees them. Whatever it is, they chicken out at the last second and let their arm fall pathetically across the backrest, looking down at their lap and pulling a noticeable face at their own failed attempt.
Yaz takes pity.
Without looking at them, she shuffles along the bench until their thighs are almost touching. Jonah bumps their knee against hers. Yaz reclines against the back of the bench. Their fingers brush her coat. She dares to reach for them.
They both are looking straight ahead when Yaz tugs their hand onto her shoulder; they both are hiding smiles.
Neither of them move for a while.
Sitting stationary proves unsustainable; their limbs soon stiffen and their teeth begin to chatter. It is with no small measure of reluctance that Jonah removes their arm from Yaz’s shoulders and proposes they keep walking.
Following a quieter path running parallel to the lake, they take turns kicking a loose pebble ahead of them as they chat in a companionable fashion.
Jonah talks animatedly; they talk with their whole body—waving their arms, throwing their head back when they laugh, spreading their hands. Yaz gets distracted watching their hands. She’s only half paying attention the next time she kicks the pebble. As a result, her foot greets it with unnecessary force and it goes flying down the grass verge to her left and skids across the icy lake.
Cutting themself off mid-sentence, Jonah stops walking and stares after the pebble.
“Look, Yaz. Look how solid that ice is,” they marvel. “Bet you could walk on that, what d’you reckon?”
Yaz makes a noncommittal sound. “I wouldn’t risk it.”
“No risk, no reward!”
“No, seriously—“
Jonah charges right down the verge with all the reckless glee of a puppy let off its leash. Yaz is more careful, avoiding jutting rocks and fallen branches on her way down. By the time she’s caught up with Jonah, they’re toeing the ice experimentally.
“Feels pretty thick to me! Shoulda brought my ice skates, shouldn’t I?”
Before Yaz can voice any more warnings, or point out that the ice turns to slush a few metres away, they drop their backpack and take a sure stride onto the lake. Their feet slip a little, they flail their arms like helicopter blades, and then they find their balance. All the while, Yaz has her arms held out as if to catch them.
“See?” Jonah bounces on the balls of their feet with a self-satisfied air. “Sturdy stuff. I told y—“
The ice cracks.
Jonah’s face falls, they look down; the crack webs.
“Shit!”
“Jonah!”
Panicked eyes find Yaz’s. The moment they lift their boot, the ice gives way beneath them, but Yaz saw this coming from the start. She seizes Jonah by their forearms and yanks them back onto solid ground, where they collide head-on and fall gracelessly to the grass.
Yaz ends up pinned beneath Jonah’s body; there’s a lock of blonde hair caught in her mouth and the charms of their belt chain are digging into her hip. She tries not to focus on where Jonah’s knee is.
Propping themself up on their elbows, Jonah regards the massive hole in the ice and blows out their cheeks with the relief of a near miss.
“Now, I don’t mind a good bath, but I reckon that woulda been a bit brisk.” They look down at Yaz and push their glasses further up their nose. For the first time, they seem to realise how close their faces are. Their pupils falter over Yaz’s mouth. The muscles in their jaw flex. “Uh. Well. Thanks for savin’ me.”
“Sure,” Yaz croaks. She doesn’t even think to chide them for their impulsiveness; far too busy willing her storm-tossed heart to return to kinder seas.
Jonah chews the inside of their cheek. “There’s a leaf in your hair.”
“Oh,” says Yaz. She doesn’t attempt to remove it.
“It’s okay. I’ll just…”
Jonah reaches behind Yaz’s ear and plucks the leaf from the underside of her bun. After flicking it to one side, their fingers return to smooth down any flyaways. Yaz swallows and Jonah’s gaze snaps towards her throat. Her lips. Her eyes. Their hand is still in her hair, and now they’re looking right at her.
Deciding to be bold, Yaz lifts her head a few millimetres from the ground. Jonah lowers theirs in kind. Their next shaky breath, a cold mist, tickles Yaz’s lips. She’s overcome with the urge to fill her lungs with it.
She doesn’t get the chance.
A short distance away, somebody shouts a shrill warning that comes several seconds too late. Then: a flash of black and brown fur, a surprised yelp, a heavy thud.
Jonah is knocked clean off Yaz’s body by an excited Doberman, who jumps on top of them and licks the side of their face with a long, pink tongue. Jonah’s whole face lights up. Laughing, they wrap their arms around its neck and roll over with it, while the owner stands at the top of the verge and scratches his head. Yaz reckons he’s probably wondering what he just interrupted.
He’s not the only one.
Later, when Jonah is finished rolling around in the grass with their new best friend and Yaz has brushed the dirt and twigs from their body for them, they start back the way they came. The gates come into view. Yaz’s stomach drops.
It dawns on her, as the din of the city—blaring horns, idle engines, a cacophony of indistinguishable voices—wafts through the railings to welcome them, that the hour she allocated herself for the date has long passed. And yet she isn’t ready to make her excuses. She’s not prepared to say goodbye to Jonah. She doesn’t want to go home.
They slow to an uncertain stop just before the gates. Hands in their pockets, Jonah eyes the busy street and hesitates.
“So…” they say, lifting their shoulders and warming their neck in their upturned collar. “Central Park virginity taken. How did I do? Any notes? Constructive criticism? Don’t hold back on my account.”
Yaz smiles. “I liked it. You made a half decent tour guide.”
“Yeah, well, there’s tonnes we didn’t get to see. Too big to cover it all in one day. And, I mean, it’s beautiful in winter but y’really can spend forever here in the summertime. There’s all these hidden places tucked away where I go to write and read, and there’s some ace picnic spots, although usually I’m just picnickin’ with my dog. Did I mention I have a dog?”
“Once or twice.”
“Right.” Rueful, Jonah bites their lip.
“Maybe… I mean, maybe we could come back. You could show me a bit more of the park.” Yaz shrugs. “I could even meet your dog.”
Jonah’s eyes turn round as dinner plates; both are heaped with delight. “Yeah? Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh, he’d love that! Screwdriver adores humans. Proper people person. Or, uh, people dog? He’s a big softie, is what I’m tryna say.”
Yaz rocks back. “Hang on—your dog’s called Screwdriver?”
“Yeah?”
“I—why?”
“Well, I had to call him somethin ’, Yaz. How else would I get his attention? Bit of a daft question.”
“Right,” chuckles Yaz. “My mistake.”
There’s a pause. Freighted. It feels like there’s something they’re both itching to say, but neither have the guts.
“Shame the weather’s too cool to stay out here, isn’t it?” laments Jonah, in a manner suggesting there’s another question hidden between the lines. They scuff the ground with the thick heel of their boot, eyes intermittently flitting towards Yaz.
“It is a shame,” Yaz concurs. A crying shame. Hoping she’s translated Jonah’s expectant looks correctly, she makes a calculated remark of her own. “Although, to be fair, I’ve not explored much else of the city either.”
Jonah pauses. The bait hangs in front of them.
They grab it with both hands.
“Would you want to? Like, maybe, now? With me? You don’t have to. Obviously. It’s just that it’s still so early, and I feel really bad that you’ve hardly seen anythin’ this city has to offer, and—well, I’m enjoyin’ your company, to be honest. Quite a lot.”
Under the warmth of their words, the grey sludge congesting Yaz’s heart begins to melt and turn to water. Her next breath feels a little lighter.
“I’d love to,” she says. “What did you have in mind?"