Gavin and Roxanne ✔️

TWO

It's approaching twenty minutes past seven when I sidle up to the entrance at Ruggiero's. I've changed my mind about coming here a minimum of a half-dozen times, though it appears the side in favor of not turning into a bitter old hermit has won out, at least temporarily. I figure I can invoke my alleged stomach virus if this social stuff is too much to bear.

So what finally drove me out of exile? What motivated me to shower, shave, and put on clean clothes – on the same night, no less? Well, I imagined what Tierney must be up to tonight – no doubt something fun and fulfilling, most likely with her still-nameless-to-me new beau. And I realized that by retreating into a world of video games and processed sugar, I'm allowing her to maintain a hold on me, even weeks after she left. If I ever want to move on, I need to break free. So what better way to start the next phase of Life After Tierney, to announce to the world that Gavin McKee is back, than a night out of great food and even better company?

I scan the bustling restaurant, and it's suitably packed for a Friday evening. The lively crowd and the murmur of their overlapping conversations nearly suffocate my senses. Anxiety tightens its grip on my insides, and for a minute Forza Horizon 3 and Little Debbies don't sound like such a bad way to spend a night after all. I take a step toward the exit, but as I do, my gaze lands at the far side of the dining room on a group of familiar faces. They light up with excitement as soon as they recognize me.

I wave back, summoning my best faux-smile. It's too late to turn back now. I'm actually going to do this.

One of the women at the table rises and saunters up to the hostess's stand to greet me, her eyes bright and warm and welcoming. She's decked out in a one-shoulder, eggplant-purple cocktail dress and black platform heels, her dark brown hair is done up in a top knot bun, and her crystal drop earrings glisten in the restaurant's ambient light. My modest wardrobe choice of a plain white tee, a black cardigan, and jeans seems downright slovenly by comparison.

This lovely human being is Ivy Johnson, part of the Oregon Symphony's viola section and best friend of tonight's birthday girl. Like Eun-Ha, Ivy has a sweet, genial disposition and a kind heart – I've quite literally never heard a bad word about her from anyone. Unlike our guest of honor, Ivy's not currently attached, and I'd guess she's been the object of a fantasy or three for much of our orchestra's straight male contingent.

And yes, that includes me. Guilty as charged.

"Gavin!" Ivy exclaims in a near-squeal as she approaches, spreading her arms in anticipation of a hug. "Jeremy said you'd be coming. I'm so glad you're here! How are you doing?"

Ivy and I lock in an embrace as if we're long-lost brother and sister, even though 'friendly acquaintances' is more accurate. There's already a hint of wine on her breath, but it's driven back by a breeze of vanilla with a back note of lavender. How is it that beautiful women always manage to smell as incredible as they look? Ivy's fragrance reminds me of this perfume Tierney used to like...

Oh, God, here I go again. Focus, McKee. Focus!

"I'm doing great, actually," I reply, a bald-faced lie if ever I've told one. "Pretty much over this stomach thing I've been battling."

Fantastic. Now I've blown my one solid pretext for cutting out of this thing early. If it comes to the point where I'm desperate to go, I'll have to get creative.

"That's so nice to hear," says Ivy, releasing me from her gentle but firm grasp. "We've been worried about you lately. You don't seem to be your usual self. But I'm glad you're on the mend."

'Not my usual self.' Well said, Ivy. That sums up the last two weeks of my life perfectly. I just want my 'usual self' back.

"We're back here," she says as she turns toward the dining area, gliding along effortlessly in her heels as I struggle to keep pace behind her in my navy blue Chuck Taylors. It's not a terrible place to be, considering Ivy's leaving a trail of that otherworldly scent in her wake. We arrive at the cluster of tables where about twenty-five of my coworkers and their partners are gathered, and I slide into the first unoccupied seat I see. To my right sits Jeremy, who's already making short work of his beer.