Chapter 8: Reflection and Resolve
Clara slouched into the worn leather booth at Monroe's Diner, a plate of steaming banana pancakes spread out before her like a golden fortress of comfort food. It was early morning, and the narrow window beside her table let in the first pale light of day. The city outside was waking up: a yellow taxi skidded past, a barista poured espresso on a curb, steam curling from a manhole grate. Across from her, Emma Carroway stabbed at a pile of crisp bacon with a fork and gave Clara a sly grin. "Alright," Emma said after taking a sip of coffee, "tell me everything about last night. I need details."
Clara bit into a banana pancake, the syrupy sweetness calming her nerves. "Oh, it was just grand," she said dryly, winking at Emma. "We had the most perfectly average date imaginable." She deliberately over-enunciated perfectly average, hoping Emma would catch the sarcasm.
Emma arched a perfectly dark eyebrow. "Average? You on a date? I'm not buying it." She twirled a strand of her glossy brown hair around her fork. "Clara Ellison, what in New York's name happened?"
Clara poked at her food with the fork, pondering. "Well... let's see." She glanced at the fluffy pancakes, still warm and dusted with powdered sugar. "I tried being normal. No magic tricks, no freebies, just plain old friendly conversation." She folded her arms, leaning forward. "And he... gave me the lukewarm treatment. I might as well have offered him a bowl of lukewarm soup with the words 'do not disturb.'"
Emma choked on her bacon slice and gave a little snort. "No way. Did he say something dumb?"
Clara shook her head. "Pretty much. He smiled at my joke about subway directions, but it didn't reach his eyes. He just... nodded and went back to staring at his phone." She made a disgusted face. "It was like I cooked a fancy dinner and he thought it was just Tuesday night leftovers."
Emma frowned and put down her fork. "So he didn't even thank you properly? He just sat there like a man with no pulse?"
"Exactly," Clara muttered. "I mean, I worked a hard day to boil those eggs and slice those bananas, Em. I was expecting some enthusiasm. Instead he sat there like… like I offered him a glass of milk and told him it was champagne. And he didn't even drink the milk."
Emma burst out laughing, nearly spraying syrup onto her napkin. "Oh my god, Clara, that's awful!" She wiped her mouth. "Poor thing. You put out the Welcome Wagon and all you got was crickets?"
Clara shrugged and reached for her coffee cup, keeping a straight face even though Emma was giggling into her own drink. "You know me, I try to stay classy," she said, raising her eyebrows theatrically. "I even let him pay for himself this time. Usually he's practically demanding to foot the whole bill."
Emma nodded sagely. "Hmm, interesting." She tapped the tip of her fork on the plate, thinking. "Maybe he's just impressed by your restraint? I mean, if you can survive a date without a single spark of magic, some men might be intimidated."
"Impressed, huh?" Clara teased. She glanced at the waiter who was skillfully juggling plates at the counter, and resisted the urge to mutter a casual incantation under her breath. Instead, she just leaned back and sighed. "Or maybe he's just too scared to say what's on his mind. I bet he thinks I might burst into a Broadway number if he gives a genuine compliment."
Emma's eyes danced. "Remember that book you love? This date was basically a chapter from Fifty Shades of Fine."
Clara snorted. "Fifty Shades of Fine. Right. Only it felt more like 'Fifty Shades of Mediocre.' He told me I looked nice. End of conversation. In the tone you use for agreeing to be on hold for tech support."
Emma wiped a tear from her eye from laughing so hard. "That's brutal. At least he wasn't rude, though, I guess? He didn't run screaming?"
Clara shook her head. "No, nothing like that. Just incredibly… neutral. When I ordered dessert, his face lit up — until I told him I was on a health kick, then he went back to face-plant in silence."
Emma slammed a hand on the table, syrup sloshing from her mug. "Unbelievable! It's like he gave up on impressing you at minute one."
"I told him I had a major presentation tomorrow," Clara added. "He just patted my hand and said, 'Good luck.' That was it. No 'Dinner was amazing.' No 'You look great.' Not even a 'Let's do this again.' Just those two words. Good luck. Like I was off to a business meeting, not a storybook ending."
Emma tilted her head. "Hm. Maybe he really did realize how different you are and got star-struck. Or maybe he's secretly a lost Highlander."
Clara rolled her eyes. "If he's immortal, he's got all eternity to figure out dinner etiquette." She paused, watching as the waiter delivered a refill of coffee. Steam spiraled into a star-shaped glow for a moment — or was that just the light catching the mug? — and Clara appreciated the little normalcy. No sparkles, no floating sugar packets. Just coffee, just today.
Emma leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You know, maybe next time you should really go for it. Have a marching band ready to pop out at dessert. Or a dragon. Men love dragons."
Clara grinned at the absurdity. "Dragons in Upper Manhattan. Sure, why not. But thanks for the tip, Em. I'll keep a majordomo behind a curtain ready for the romance moments."
Emma grinned too. "Hey, I'm just saying. Normal is nice, but you're Clara Ellison. You deserve fireworks."
Clara took a long sip of her coffee, tasting the bitterness in her mouth and hoping it would wash down some of her disappointment. "You're right," she said softly. "I do deserve fireworks. I just didn't expect to have to light them myself."
Emma patted her hand. "Anyway, forget him for now. Let me see what the universe has in store. At least you gave the normal route a shot."
Clara raised her fork of pancake in a mock toast. "To real efforts and no shortcuts," she said. "And to Monday mornings that aren't scented like self-pity."
Emma clinked her pancake against Clara's. Maple syrup dripped down the sides. "Cheers to that."
They took big bites of the sweet, pillowy pancakes. Clara closed her eyes and savored the moment: good coffee, bacon's smoky scent, Emma's easy laughter. It wasn't heaven-sent magic, but it was a kind of warmth that grounded her.
Soon enough, both women pushed back from the table. Clara winked at Emma. "Thanks for the pep talk. I need to tackle a mile of errands, but let's catch up later. I owe you a movie night."
Emma smiled broadly. "Anytime. Now go face the city and show it who's boss." She winked. "And text me if a marching band actually appears."
Clara laughed and hugged her friend quickly. "Bye, Emma. Thanks for breakfast."
She grabbed her lightweight tote and her phone from the table. A glance at the screen revealed two unread messages from Mark: one from yesterday morning ("Thanks for last night :)") and one from this morning that simply said "Hi". Clara sighed. Decoding those had already given her a headache. She dropped her phone back into her pocket. No elaboration was coming from them.
Stepping out of the diner, Clara squared her shoulders and took in the morning chaos. Midtown Manhattan was painting itself in motion: the hum of early buses, the warm aroma of a pretzel cart on the corner, the steady heartbeat of the subway just below ground. The air smelled like roasted coffee and the crisp edge of approaching fall. She inhaled deeply, as if bracing for the day. For once, the city's energy didn't annoy her — it felt like it had flipped to her side.
With a final wave to the departing taxi, Clara headed to the subway station. Normally, her errands were invitations for chaos: a subway train that runs late, a phone that slips from her hand, a cashier that thinks she's undercover royalty and insists on freebies. But today, she thought whimsically, she might just get through the morning unscathed. If that happened, the universe would have to write the episode itself.
At the turnstiles, Clara found herself waiting in a short line of other commuters, pressing their MetroCards and grumbling at delays. She stood calmly behind them — no zipping ahead with a haughty glance, no asking kindly if they'd "mind if I buzzed through." Even here, magic had no hold. The Q train pulled in right on schedule with a screech, the doors opening to reveal more empty seats than packed bodies.
Clara looked around, suspicious. Usually at least one singing subway performer or an errant mouse appeared to test her patience. Today there was just the squeal of the brakes and someone reading the Times. She slid into a seat near the window and exhaled. Finally, she muttered softly, "the universe gave me a break." The doors hissed shut behind her.
As the train rattled toward her stop, Clara pulled out her phone to text Emma ("Heading to the post off–"). She only typed half a word before the screen slipped from her fingers. Her phone clattered onto the train floor but landed face-up. In any other timeline, that drop might have shattered the screen or sent the phone skittering under a seat where it would be lost. Today, it simply lay waiting. An older gentleman in a rumpled suit saw it slide and kindly scooted it back toward Clara.
She bent to retrieve it, her cheeks pink with gratitude. "Thank you," she said, cheeks burning. It wasn't magic, just polite New York courtesy. She tapped in her passcode and smiled at the intact screen. "That's two miracles," Clara joked to herself. Maybe she had accidentally woken up on the lucky side of her bed.
A quick check of the map app confirmed she was one station away from her target. When the Q slowed to a stop, Clara stood up, gathered her bag, and stepped off. She merged into the sidewalk stream without fanfare, weaving through a morning crush of people heading to offices and cafes. The familiar scents and sounds enveloped her: hot coffee from a sidewalk cart, someone's sweet perfume, the distant blare of a traffic light changing.
Next on her list was the local grocery store, so she walked a few blocks, enjoying the unexpected serenity. At one point, she paused at a street vendor selling kettle corn. Normally, a kernel or two would tempt her, but today she shrugged and kept walking. The vendor called after her, "Here, have a free sample, on the house!" — as if Mr. Universe himself were trying to keep her off balance. Clara shook her head and waved it away. "No freebies," she muttered to herself, just to keep her promise.
Inside the grocery store, the bell on the door jingled, and Clara was greeted by the fluorescent buzz of lights. She breezed through her shopping list: eggs, lettuce, a carton of milk, and bananas for, ironically, another round of tomorrow's breakfast. The cashier scanned each item with a bored beep.
Clara watched with wide eyes. "That total? Is that—" she blinked. The screen said $18.43, exactly what she expected from a normal shopper. No surprise discounts, no glowy math, no singing scales as she paid. She swiped her card and even paid the 5¢ paper bag fee the cashier asked for. Then the young man behind the counter said, "Have a nice day," as if he'd just rung up any other customer in America. Clara managed a surprised smile and collected her bag. "You too," she said softly, barely believing the ordinariness.
Outside the store, she almost laughed out loud. She had to stop herself at the crosswalk to allow a taxi to pass. It did. Nothing catastrophic happened: the pedestrian light didn't misbehave, no pigeons swooped to steal her groceries. She even managed to catch every green light walking back toward her subway entrance. What is going on? Clara thought. It felt like she was living in a small, carefully calibrated glitch in the matrix.
Shrugging off her surprise, she told herself to enjoy the break. Maybe the real world deserved a chance every now and then. She stepped through the turnstile, the new $20 she'd loaded onto her MetroCard beeped quietly, and the barriers opened. This time, instead of relying on a psychic nudge, she took the stairs up. The sweet dizziness of independence settled over her shoulders.
Back at her apartment in mid-afternoon, Clara set her grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Rays of sunlight slanted through the curtains, dancing over sticky notes and an ever-growing stack of mail on the table. The place smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old books — homey and predictable.
She sank into her chair and glanced up at the vision board that covered half the wall beside the fridge. It was plastered with bright images and scribbled Post-its: a photo of a white-sand beach with "Travel the world!" scrawled underneath; a glossy engagement ring ad pinned next to a magazine clipping of a fancy restaurant; a photo of her friend Emma at a party that said "Be fun, be fearless!" Everything on it had once meant something to her.
Today, those pictures looked oddly childish. Clara got up and padded over to study it more closely. The sight of her own face smiling in one of those cutouts felt almost like she was looking at a stranger. What had that enthusiastic girl, finger-sticking glue, actually accomplished?
"This is... cute," Clara murmured, tipping her head. The edge of a photo showed a castle in Europe — once an inspiration to chase fairytale dreams — now a gaudy, cheesy postcard. A Post-it said You bring the magic!, which, at this moment, felt like a slapline from some cloying ad.
She peeled off the sticky note and crumpled it in her hand. "What was I thinking?" Clara whispered to herself. She realized she'd been so busy dreaming that she hadn't noticed reality fading. All those picture-perfect goals had been motivating... until they weren't.
The taste of syrup and disappointment still lingered in her mouth. Clara slid off the stool and headed back to the table. She poured herself a glass of water and looked out the window: the sky was a blank canvas with clouds, nothing extraordinary. Grounding.
In that quiet moment, understanding flickered through her. The charmed life she'd lived — the one with magic to solve problems and fortune at her heels — had been her safety net. But it was wearing thin. That vision board had kept her hopes alive, sure, but it was also a reminder that she hadn't done a thing to make those dreams real. And when things had finally been normal, she felt... unfulfilled.
Clara put down the glass with a soft clink and spun around. She would take action. Right now.
Her eyes landed on the notepad lying on the kitchen desk — a freebie from some random workshop, with "Bold Ideas" printed in sparkly letters on the cover. She flipped it open and grabbed a pen. Staring at the blank page, she took a breath.
Then, in neat block letters, she wrote across the top: Project: Earn Interest (Not Freebies).
The words felt heavy and satisfying. She underlined Earn once, twice, three times for good measure. Not Freebies she circled dramatically, as if daring the universe to object. She leaned back and admired her work. A tiny drum roll seemed to sound in her head as she envisioned herself like a knight at a council, declaring war on her own complacency.
In the quiet apartment, she let out a fierce grin. Dragon, your lair is waiting, she thought, marveling at how empowered she already felt. Even though her declaration was scribbled on a scrap of paper, the resolve behind it was real. Bullet points spilled beneath the title in her handwriting:
Do things that matter to me.
Practice honesty, even if it's scary.
Keep the magic in check (save it for urgent dragon emergencies).
Maybe learn to cook an actual soufflé for once.
Avoid autopilot like the plague.
These weren't grand resolutions, just sensible steps she could actually take. She laughed softly at the last one, which she'd scribbled under her breath: it sounded dramatic but true.
With the notebook closed and her mission etched in ink, Clara felt a thrill of triumph. She had hatched a plan. It didn't matter if it was silly — she believed in it now. Tossing the pen in the cup, she jumped up. "Alright," she announced to the empty kitchen, "let's do this."
Before leaving her desk, Clara tore off the page with her proud slogan and pinned it to the refrigerator with a magnet. There it hung, just beneath a photo of her and Emma giggling at that pizza place last year. No shiny borders, just plain white paper, but somehow it gleamed. She gave it a quick salute as she headed out the door.
That evening, Central Park was a cool oasis at dusk. Clara jogged along a gravel path lined with oaks, the skyscrapers of midtown glowing behind them. The sky was streaked pink and purple as the sun dipped low. Other joggers passed by, and a few couples ambled on benches near the pond, the clatter of the city softened by distance.
Clara had changed into a pair of worn sneakers and a hoodie, letting her hair stay loose against the breeze. As she pounded the path, she focused on steady breaths — the only music she needed was the rhythm of her shoes hitting the ground. It felt good: a real, physical effort to clear her head after a day of mental battles.
A man in a gray track suit was jogging behind her and gradually caught up. He slowed to match pace. "You look like you could use some water," he said, holding out a half-full bottle. "Here."
Clara felt her cheeks warm. She barely recognized herself in this scenario. Normally, someone offering help might have triggered a courtesy spell or a quick flinch. Today, though, it was just a man with a bottle and a smile.
She stopped and took the bottle with a grateful nod. "Thanks, but I actually grabbed my own," she said, pulling out her own flask from her waistband. "I appreciate it, though."
The man smiled and jogged on, unphased. Clara took a swig from her flask. The water was surprisingly refreshing. Practice setting boundaries, she reminded herself, echoing the bullet point in her mind. And I just did. She felt a rush of pride — a small one, but thrilling all the same.
Further along, two businessmen walking their dogs approached. One stepped aside politely, raising an imaginary top hat. "After you," he said, courtesy dripping from his voice. Clara couldn't help but grin.
Most days, she might have thanked him with a "Please, after you," out of habit. But now she just gave a polite nod and passed through. She realized this was another tiny victory: accepting kindness but not letting it undermine her independence.
The park air grew cooler as the sun set completely. Streetlamps clicked on and streetlights began to flicker in the distance. Clara jogged one final loop around the fountain and then slowed to a walk, letting her muscles loosen. Her heartbeat had settled into a comfortable thrum.
No spells, just stride, she thought proudly. It felt liberating. Each polite offer, each normal moment without a hitch, had made her smile inwardly. She truly did have her own back tonight.
When she left the park, the city was fully lit: yellow taxi headlights, digital signs, the distant roar of night traffic. Clara exhaled a little laugh. The ordinary world still had a sparkle to it — now because of her efforts, not a wizardly surge.
Later that night, Clara lay in bed listening to the muffled hum of the city. The street lamps outside cast a golden lattice of shadows across her bedroom ceiling. In the next room, an old clock ticked with serene determination. She felt pleasantly exhausted from the day's achievements.
Her fingers unconsciously picked up the MetroCard that rested on the nightstand. She had loaded it with $20 this afternoon herself at the station kiosk, and then left it here — an act so mundane but also huge. Clara turned the card over in her hands. The plastic rectangle gleamed as she pressed it against her palm, like a little champion's trophy.
"It's silly," she whispered to the dark room, "but I earned this."
She held the card to her chest, closing her eyes. She could almost feel the day's magic seep out into this quiet moment: the train arriving on time, the cashier's polite smile, the bottle of water politely refused. None of it had happened because someone waved a wand or ran a spell. It happened because she had willed it, asked for nothing, and given up nothing essential. That thought made her grin sleepily.
Tonight, she didn't need fireworks. The skyline outside might have had none, but in her heart there were gentle sparks of triumph. She tucked the card under the pillow, cradling it like a talisman of her resolve.
Clara let her mind wander one last time over the day's events: no magical freebies, no fairy-tale endings, just real, earned moments. It was completely normal — and completely new. She realized she liked it.
"I'm proud of you," she told herself, hugging the card. It wasn't a person's voice, but it sounded like one in her head. Quiet and strong.
As she drifted toward sleep, the last thought on Clara's mind was a promise to herself: tomorrow would be just as real, just as hers. With a small smile curving her lips, she fell into gentle slumber, a normal girl in a not-so-normal world — finally embracing a slice of everyday magic of her own making.
Chapter 9: Charm School
On the edge of a Manhattan rooftop, Clara cradled a glass of rosé against the night's cool breeze. The city skyline shimmered beneath her, lights like pinpricks against the velvet black, and the distant hum of traffic rose upward as if New York itself were breathing. She swirled the wine thoughtfully and wondered whether it could actually calm her nerves… or if she'd just end up cleaning crimson spots off the concrete by sunrise. Clara knew she looked perfect out here – hair catching the city lights, her dress floating ever-so-lightly in the wind – and of course people would glance over if they saw her. Great, she thought wryly, even the stars will outshine me, won't they?
"Hey, stranger."
Clara turned at the familiar voice, catching her reflection for a moment in the glass doors behind her. The warm, slightly teasing tone belonged to Ben, her oldest friend and constant comic relief in her life's endless sitcom. He leaned casually against the blackened rooftop railing and grinned down at her. Even in the darkness, she could see his eyes dancing. "Walked all the way over from Brooklyn for the wine or the company?" he asked, indicating her glass with a playful raise of his eyebrows. The city's lights flickered around them, reflecting off the antennae of skyscrapers and the far-off wink of a starlit bar sign.
"Company," she answered with only a hint of a lie. The glass of rosé was mostly empty, its pinkish glow gone with her third sip. Ben stepped up to join her, balancing an empty wine glass in his hand. They began sipping in companionable silence, letting the sounds of New York breathe around them: a distant siren fade, a rumble of laughter from a late-night diner far below, the choked crash of construction equipment somewhere off in the East Village. Clara had always loved nights like this – the city felt impossibly vast and alive, and somehow intimate up here. It comforted her, just being among the steel giants.
They had known each other since middle school, when rules felt like suggestions and the biggest concerns had been dodgeball and whether Principal Whitman would slide an extra cookie under the table if you blinked. Even then, Ben had been the kind of friend who could read Clara's mind: mischievous but comforting, and fiercely loyal. She'd always wondered how the universe arranged that – everyone else in school had burned out eventually, but Ben had stuck around.
Clara took another sip and turned away to gaze at the stars. The city had a way of swallowing them whole in its suburban glow, but up here, a few of the bigger constellations were still visible. She thought of her problem—and that if any oxygen might leave her soon, it would be from the exasperation with herself, not lack of breath. I need to do this, she reminded herself. Get it together, Clara.
"Alright," Ben said, elbowing her gently in the ribs and nearly catching her off guard. "What's up? You said meeting me here was urgent. It better not be another one of your midnight weird parties." His voice was light, but Clara heard the edge underneath it: playful, but curious.
She let out a small chuckle and shrugged, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "It's... it's something important. I need your help," she admitted quietly, sliding back a little to nestle herself against the warmth of the concrete wall. The cool night wind tousled her hair, ghost-curling around her shoulders. Asking Ben for anything more than jokes and company made her feel as fragile as this rooftop was high.
"Oh man, this is serious." Ben turned around to face her, hands suddenly on his hips like a superhero on call. He gave her the once-over, pretending to look her up and down with mock suspicion. "Let me guess. Two words: Date night? You need me to coach you through some date with your secret crush or something." He quirked one eyebrow. Clara felt a familiar flush of embarrassment heat her cheeks. She hated that he still knew her so well.
Ben was too good at guessing. She had been crafting excuses around Mark's name for so long that Ben could read right through them. But that was only half the truth. The rest was bigger and messier. Clara took a deep breath and tried to steady her tone. "Sort of. It's like—maybe this sounds crazy—but I need to learn how to act normal." The word "normal" tasted strange on her tongue. In her world, it felt distant, like a place in someone else's dreams.
Ben let out a whoop of air and fluttered one hand dramatically. "Ohhh, the mighty Ben at your service," he declaimed, then struck a pretentious pose. "Teach you to be normal, you say? Oh, this I gotta see. I should get a cape or something, call myself 'Captain Authenticity.' I'll charge good money!"
Clara laughed despite herself. Here it was: him teasing her again, the same way he always did when life got serious. He climbed up onto the railing beside her, looking ridiculous enough that she almost snorted wine out her nose. "Ben—Captain Authenticity—that's terrible," she shot back, smiling. The rhythm of his voice was a balm to her nerves.
"You know, Clara," Ben continued, leaning back as if he were delivering a training montage speech. "Pretty privilege and all that… you really don't need to act normal. You're basically the Cinderella of Manhattan—people practically collapse handing you the slipper, I swear."
A genuine grin tugged at the corners of her mouth despite the tension. "Oh, I know. This is total first-world-problems territory," she muttered, rolling her eyes at the night. The breeze caused the thin straps of her dress to shiver on her shoulders. "But some of my... normal friends—you know, the ones I actually see as, I don't know, actual humans, like you—" she gave him a half-smile, "even you have mentioned it. That maybe I should try being less... well, this. Less perfect, if that makes sense."
Ben hopped down from the railing and leaned on it beside her, both of them now looking out at the city lights. The wind tugged at their clothes gently. "You mean less perfect?" he repeated, eyebrows raised in mock horror. "Heavens, Clara, if you get any less perfect, you'll have to start carrying gum or something. Maybe some patchouli oil and a spare scarf. Next thing you know we'll both be riding Segways to work."
Clara chortled, then sighed more deeply under the humor. Beneath the laughter, there was an ache she hadn't wanted to admit so bluntly. "Ben, it's not that I want to— It's just that sometimes I do feel… I mean, people around me, or even you, I can sense it. They all expect everything to go great all the time with me. And then when something weird happens—like today—" She trailed off, struggling to put it into words. The breeze tugged gently at her hair as if encouraging her.
Ben looked at her seriously for a moment, then set down his empty glass on the floor behind her. The city's distant noises lulled as if giving them privacy; maybe even the skyline of skyscrapers was listening. He put on a playful grimace. "Alright then," he whispered theatrically, "I will begin Charm School right now. Give it to me straight, Ms. Pretty Lady. How do I make you less dazzling and more normal?"
Clara managed a small smile, suddenly touched despite herself. Ben had to do it right then and there, didn't he? Always the jokester, even at pivotal moments.
"I'm serious," she said, in that flat, earnest tone she reserved for her most personal moments. "I want to start being normal. I want to—can you help me? Really help?"
Ben took a long sip from his glass. "Well," he drawled, "your track record for listening to advice from friends is… uh, not great. But heck, I guess miracles do happen." He flashed that classic goofy grin. "Also I once skipped that poetry workshop to help you with Greek revision, so I say we're officially even."
Clara looked into his eyes, meeting that upturned smile with something like resolve. "I'm serious, Ben. I know this sounds silly, but maybe I owe it to myself to try. So if you're willing to play along—teach me to be normal—then I'd like that."
"I am," he said firmly. He raised his empty glass in a toast. "Because I love you, and also because I need new material for roasting you in front of your future kids."
Clara laughed and tapped her glass gently against the thin rail. "To Charm School," she toasted.
"Charm School," Ben echoed, straightening. "May the odds be ever in your favor—which, ironically, you can probably apply to literally everything in life." He grinned impishly. "Seriously, Clara, you manage to charm those odds themselves sometimes."
They clinked glasses and stood side by side, drinking in the city night. The cool breeze swirled around them, carrying the distant clang of an early-morning subway and the faint music from a nightclub two blocks below. Clara's reflection in the apartment windows next to them shimmered faintly; she caught herself smiling. The ironic weight of having Ben joke with her about everything made her feel a little less alone on top of the world.
The next morning in Central Park, New York had traded its starry rooftop view for a canopy of chestnut leaves and golden autumn sun. Clara stepped lightly onto a winding gravel path, brushing a crisp leaf off her shoulder. The air was cool and crisp, smelling faintly of pine from the evergreen trees and of roasted chestnuts from a distant vendor. Joggers in neon-lined jackets padded by, a pair of Golden Retrievers ran in looping circles after a thrown tennis ball, and a small brass saxophone player draped in a knit hat poured warm jazz notes into the bright morning air.
Clara clutched a tote bag over her shoulder. Peeking inside, she spotted a half-eaten turkey sandwich, a warmly steaming thermos of mint tea, and two stacks of multicolored index cards – the ones Ben insisted they'd need. She knew it was ridiculous, practicing with cue cards in Central Park like some bizarre public exam, but if nothing else, today needed to teach her something beyond theatrics.
A short distance ahead, Ben sat on a painted green bench beside a stone fountain. The fountain bubbled cheerfully, mist dancing sunlit rainbows on the spray. He waved enthusiastically — one hand held a goofy stuffed duck puppet (which he'd nicknamed "Professor Quacksworth"), and the other was buried in the cue cards. A small crowd was starting to gather: maybe three curious bystanders eyeing them as if they were about to witness performance art.
Clara took a steadying breath and approached the bench. The wind whispered through the trees around her, and a few leaves pirouetted down as if applauding. Ben waved the puppet's wing at her. "Ready for your first lesson?" he called with a huge grin.
"Sounds suitably humiliating," Clara said with dry humor, sliding onto the bench next to him. The wood was cool against her back. "Just so you know," she added dramatically, "I've already Googled 'How to date normal.' The search results were disappointing – mostly articles written by teenagers who think swiping right is a personality trait."
Ben snorted into the stuffed duck's beak. "Duh. Teenagers think asking 'U up?' at 2 AM is a conversation." He rapped a cue card against the bench. "These cards will help more, I promise."
"Please do," Clara sighed theatrically, brushing a lock of hair from her face with one hand. A couple strolling by slowed to stare. Excellent, she thought with heavy sarcasm. Even the tourists are here for the show. She ignored them. Let them watch; it might as well be showtime.
Ben picked a card and waved it in front of her. It read: "Ask about their childhood pet." His eyes sparkled.
"My turn," Clara said, trying to lighten the mood with a grin. "It's my turn first?"
He handed her the cue card and hopped off the bench. "Pretend you're on a date," he instructed. "I'm the date, and we're having coffee out here. I know absolutely nothing about your life. Your job is to ask me a question to get me talking. And it has to be about my childhood pet."
Clara's fingers tightened on the card. It even had a goofy little cartoon cat drawn in the corner. Of course. The world was telling her from the start: you need help doing this. She cleared her throat. "So… I'm gonna ask you about your childhood pet," she said aloud to herself, then raised her voice. "So, what was your childhood pet like?"
Ben adopted a blithe shrug. "Well, I'll start us off," he said with a grin. He inched closer, adopting a teasing tone, "I once had a goldfish named Sir Flaps-a-Lot. We gave him chocolate-covered biscuit treats every Tuesday. Guess how that went?"
Clara nearly choked on her tea. She burst out laughing. "Chocolate biscuits?" she repeated incredulously. "Sir Flaps-a-Lot? Did he have chocolate biscuits for every meal or just on Tuesdays?"
Ben nodded solemnly. "Tuesdays. They were his treat day." He made a show of patting an imaginary fishbowl on the bench. "He got kind of… well, purple. It was his downfall."
Clara wiped a tear from her eye, trying to speak normally again. "Wow, that's amazing. So did Sir Flaps-a-Lot have any fish friends? Any siblings? Or was he lone fish in a bowl?"
Ben puffed up his chest like an actor. "Ah, Sir Flaps-a-Lot did have a nemesis: Mr. Wriggles McGee, a particularly feisty tropical fish from next door. They had an epic rivalry. Wriggles once tried to sabotage his food supply!" He ended with a dramatic, fishy eye-roll.
A few of the onlookers had started smiling. A jogger paused with a grin. A child on a tricycle came close, holding a stuffed fish toy.
Clara stood up. "Okay," she said, feeding into the improv, "now I have to ask you about your favorite childhood game." She took a theatrically deep breath and flipped to the next card. "Ask about his favorite childhood game."
Ben hopped around the bench, rubbing his hands together. "Oh, good one." He leaned in conspiratorially, fingertips together. "I have to confess… as a kid, my favorite game was Face the Duck. It was a secret, but guess what: I was undefeated."
Clara blinked. "Face the Duck?" She fought a laugh – Seriously? – but he was going along with it. A group of college students behind her giggled and filmed the scene. She turned and waved at them, earning a laugh from the crowd. Alright, Clara, she thought, facing a rogue dog in the park maybe. But she pushed on. "Face the Duck… interesting. So how do you play Face the Duck?"
Ben put his puppet's feather finger to his lips. "Ah, it's a simple game. Whoever makes the other person quack first wins!"
Clara couldn't hold it in anymore. "You're unbelievable," she laughed, shaking her head.
They were halfway through the crowd of passersby who had stopped to watch, now fully entertained by the absurdity of it. Clara's cheeks warmed — but not from embarrassment alone. The crowd wasn't judging her; they were laughing with her. People on a nearby bench were cheering. A jogger let out a whoop as if she'd just scored a touchdown. It felt surprisingly supportive.
Ben bowed theatrically. "My time is up," he joked, sidestepping behind Clara as if giving her the spotlight. "Your turn to speak, madame."
Clara turned redder still. She's literally quacking, she thought wryly. Alright, new card. "Talk about your proudest accomplishment." She held it between her knees, glancing at the words. The public had turned this duet into a spectacle. Of course, she thought. Why wouldn't this be an audience?
She closed her eyes for a second, took a sip of tea to think, then opened them to face Ben. "My proudest accomplishment?" she mused aloud, trying to sound relaxed. "I guess… I finished my master's thesis on time while juggling a part-time job." She shrugged as if it were no big deal. "That got me a lot of praise, which was nice."
Ben gave a slow clap. "Wow, Clara! A thesis? Big stuff. Did you defend it with a sword or something?"
Clara cringed internally. "No, with, um, arguments and footnotes, I guess." Her smile faltered. Why does she always have to sound so boring? She tried another angle quickly: "Okay, actually, I volunteered at a soup kitchen on my birthday last year. I guess I'm a little proud of that." She glanced away, mouth suddenly very dry.
Ben softened his expression. "That's actually really cool. Some people would claim that just to look good."
Clara's internal monologue exploded: Smooth, genius. But she tried to shrug it off. "Well, I mean, I really think people needed it more, you know?" she added quickly, a practiced shrug of humility.
Ben gave her a slow, knowing smile. "You always have an answer ready, don't you? But hey, for once you didn't turn that into a show. That's progress."
The crowd had quieted, watching her attempt to answer without stumbling into perfection. One onlooker, a tall man with a scruffy beard, gave her a thumbs-up. Clara bit her lip, trying not to beam.
Ben nudged her with his elbow, breaking the silence. "Okay, final task before your test ends: give me a compliment about me. Not about how I look — something nice about my brain or whatever."
She blinked. Compliment him? How was she supposed to think of something non-superficial to say? Actually, sure. She looked at him. He was smiling at her, interested. She caught herself feeling grateful for him being here, for being on this team.
"Alright, here goes," she whispered to herself, then turned to Ben with a small grin. "Uh… Ben, I think you're really creative. You always make me laugh when I need it."
A smattering of applause erupted from the small crowd. A mother holding a baby clapped dramatically, and someone else even gave a slow hand wave as if acknowledging a final bow.
Ben opened his eyes wide and let the puppet do a little bow. "Thank you, thank you," he said through the rubber duck, exaggerating flair.
Clara rolled her eyes playfully. "I hate this," she mumbled softly, but it wasn't conviction: she was actually pleased to have let something genuine slip out.
They both stood up, dusting off their backs as if wrapping up a performance.
"Alright, Coach Wyatt, I surrender," Clara declared, grinning.
Ben hopped down from the bench and joined her, shooing the spectators with a flourish. "Yes, yes, until next time, folks. Thanks for being a great audience," he called out with a theatrical bow. A few of the nearby dog walkers and parents waved.
Clara watched the people drift away, some talking about them. For once, she didn't feel self-conscious, just a little out of breath. "So…points for effort? Are we done?" she asked, smoothing out the hem of her skirt.
Ben let out a satisfied sigh. "Okay, look. You did really well for a first try," he said, sounding proud. "But now comes the final exam." He turned to gesture dramatically at a nearby picnic stand, its red-and-white umbrella visible through the trees. "Time for something truly terrifying: paying for your own food in public."
Clara narrowed her eyes. "After that open-mic extravaganza? You want me to face the forbidden demon of normal life? Fine. You're on." She marched confidently toward the stand, head held high. Under her breath she added, "What's next? Eye contact?"
Ben smirked and followed. "If you manage that without hyperventilating, I might get you ice cream for dessert."
"Deal," Clara said. "And I mean it. For science and personal growth."
They approached the stand — a small wooden cart tucked under a maple, festooned with strings of fairy lights and a sign reading "Lemonberry Picnic: Sandwiches & Sweets." Lou, the jolly vendor with a mustache, was already on duty. He spotted Clara and gave a mock salute.
"Good morning, sunshine," Lou said in a thick Brooklyn accent. "What'll it be today?"
Clara held onto her bag straps, recalling Ben's instructions. "I'll have two lemon tarts and two lemon mint teas," she said firmly, reaching into her wallet for cash. Her fingers closed around a few wrinkled bills and coins.
Lou grinned. "On the house, for the prettiest customer on this early stroll," he said, reaching for a pair of plates.
Clara froze, hand in mid-air. On the house? Again? She glanced at Ben, who was giving her a sly thumbs-up: it was her cue.
"No, really," she said, smiling politely at Lou. She opened her wallet and started to pull out the money.
Immediately, the universe seemed to take offense.
A wind gust blew down the path, ruffling Clara's hair and whipping the cornice flags overhead. With astonishing timing, the five-dollar bill she'd just handed Lou wafted right back into her palm, like it didn't want to be paid. Lou's eyes went wide; he frowned at the bill sitting there.
Ben chuckled. "That's… not how physics works."
Clara scowled at the recalcitrant banknote. She tried to push it back toward Lou, but a second gust picked it up off the table and sent it flying sideways into the grass. Two squirrels immediately darted in, snagging each bill in their teeth.
"No!" Clara lunged forward, but her movements only scattered more bills into the air. The wind, as if exasperated, howled up around her and spun her scarf playfully. Coins slipped from her fingers as if magnetized to the ground, rolling under nearby benches.
Lou pinched the bridge of his nose with amusement. "Seriously? Did I just wake up in a cartoon?"
Passersby had again stopped to stare. One jogger stood still, mouth open, as a floppy-eared beagle leapt at her pocket where a quarter had landed. The dog scurried off triumphantly. A toddler pointed at the flying money like it was confetti, and his mother laughed.
Clara wrestled against the wind, trying to rescue her payment. Her arms swept wildly. "Hey! Planet Pluto! Give that back!" she muttered, swatting at a dollar note fluttering into a tree.
Ben tried to grab the remaining tea cups Lou had filled. "Let me help you," he said. He caught her arm as she dove after a dollar. "Clara, maybe let it go."
Clara panted, chest heaving from the sprint. She glared at a particularly smug squirrel that had just stuffed a bill under a rock. "No, screw this," she groaned, reaching into her tote. She pulled out a handful of leftover trail mix and tossed it toward the squirrel. It froze, crunching nibble by nibble.
Lou finally came to the rescue. He laughed as he grabbed her scattered bills and coins. "Alright, alright, I get it. No charge. I'll say it was about, oh, five bucks? That's on me." He winked at her.
Clara straightened up, hair a bit windblown, cheeks red. She managed a weak grin. "Thanks. I guess the universe wants me to save on carbs today." She pocketed the "change" Lou put on the counter from her flailing money.
Ben poured the steaming teas from a thermos Lou fetched as bonus "dessert" (because how could he charge now?) and handed Clara a cup.
They walked to a nearby picnic table under the shade of an oak. Ben sat opposite her and handed over a tart. Lou waved at them from the stand with a laugh. As Clara took a bite of lemony pastry, she thought about the absurdity of it: The world was literally ripping money from her hands for trying to do something normal. Perfect. She took a sip of tea. "Well," she said, "that was humiliating."
Ben laughed, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Look on the bright side — your tips were epic." He winked, and she couldn't help but chuckle. The final lesson had been: the world might conspire for or against you, but ultimately she had to decide how to act. Today the cosmos had chosen to sabotage. Fine. Lesson learned.
She wiped her fingers on a napkin and looked at the pond across the way, where ducks waddled and quacked at their own reflection. In that golden afternoon light, she felt… different. Less polished, somehow, even though a mint tea still warmed her hands. A quiet smile played on her lips as she realized she had done it: she'd paid—or tried to—with her own money. And survived.
They walked on from the picnic table as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in orange and pink. Clara still had a small leftover lemon tart and crumbs of trail mix in her purse, but otherwise felt ready to call it a day. Ben let out a contented sigh. "Alright, Clara," he said, easing down onto a wrought-iron bench under a lamp-post now flickering on. "Recap time. Summarize what you learned today." He crossed one leg over the other with exaggerated studiousness.
Clara smiled ruefully and leaned back next to him, watching children get ready to play under a carousel of twilight. Her parka jacket was a bit rumpled from the afternoon's adventures, and a small bit of lemon filling escaped the tart onto her jeans. Just her luck. She rubbed it off surreptitiously. "Lesson one," she began slowly, twirling a crumb on the table with her fingertip. "In conversation… maybe not speaking 85% of the time as I usually do."
Ben nodded. "Right."
"Lesson two," she went on, "stop turning everything about me into a highlight reel. Sometimes things can just be, I dunno, normal or even boring." She glanced at him and hesitated, but pushed on. "Like, being proud of volunteering? That's good, but I said it weird. No need to make a big show out of it."
Ben put on a cheeky grin. "Got it: less showbiz, more sincerity."
Clara sat up a bit. She hadn't expected to actually think all this through, but here she was in Central Park, summarizing life lessons to her oldest friend. She tucked the tart wrapper in her bag. "Lesson three: Listen 70%, talk 30%. You said it, and I get it now. Ask questions, actually wait for answers, and maybe follow up."
Ben held up the cue card she'd dropped earlier. It read, "Listen 70%, talk 30%." "See? My cue cards are still doing the job."
Clara swatted at the card with a smile. "Where would I be without these," she teased. Then she got more serious. "I think… I think I learned it's okay to be ordinary. Even if it makes me feel a little weird about myself."
Ben gave her a supportive look. "Hey, ordinary or not, you're still my best friend. And if you stuff up, I still owe you that ice cream."
She chuckled and looked up as a gentle breeze rustled the oak leaves, casting shifting shadows on the brick path. "I'm not sure yet who I am under all this," she admitted softly. "Without the compliments… who is this Clara?"
Ben smiled warmly. "She's a sweet, nerdy girl with a killer smile."
Clara rolled her eyes with a half-laugh. "Thanks."
She peered at the pond, imagining two tiny stick figures on swings on the playground she had walked past earlier that day. One was pretending to be a duck; the other was handing a flower. The corners of her mouth went up. Tomorrow, she might actually manage to ask Mark about the day he met his cat.
Ben glanced at his watch. "Well, I better get home," he said, standing up and stretching. "Don't be a stranger, future Coach Clara."
"I won't," Clara promised with a grin. She gathered up her bag and waved as he jogged off.
Ben called out one last thing over his shoulder: "And hey, next time, you're buying the snacks!"
Clara watched him disappear into the evening shadow, feeling strangely lighter than before. The city lights had just started winking on as she made her way home.
Later that night, Clara sat at her desk with a warm mug of tea and the quiet of her apartment surrounding her. The ceiling light cast a soft pool of light over her notebook, and through the window she could see the distant Manhattan skyline glowing gently against the dark sky. Silence pressed softly on her ears — peaceful after the day's chaos.
She opened a fresh page in her journal, the pen poised in her hand. Thoughts still tumbled around her mind, and she began jotting them down in a list of bullet points. She let her writing run free, as if each point were a lesson formed from the day's madness:
Listen 70%, talk 30%.Seriously pay attention. Let people finish a sentence before I jump in with something flashy. Show I care by asking follow-ups.
Be honest (even if it's awkward). If I don't know an answer or feel silly, just say it. Normal conversations can be dull or confusing, and that's okay.
No more magic-trick compliments. Compliments are nice, but stop showering everyone in sparkles. Keep my charm on a leash.
Pay with my own cash. No matter what the universe throws. (Maybe even bring an actual brick of coins to bribe any squirrel ninja squads.)
Ask Mark normal stuff. Like, no grand speeches — just talk about his day or that band he told me about. Let things flow naturally.
As Clara wrote, she doodled in the margins: a little ear next to the first bullet, a goofy smiley face that looked a bit embarrassed next to the honesty line. Birds and paw prints walked across the page where squirrels had invaded her money — a tiny comic for herself.
When she was nearly done, she added something on a whim. In the bottom corner she sketched a little stick-figure cartoon of herself. The stick-girl had two giant hearts for eyes and was beaming a ridiculous grin. Beside her was a small stick-figure boy with tousled hair labeled "Mark." He was offering her a flower. The girl waved shyly back, surrounded by tiny hand-drawn sparkles.
Clara chuckled and blushed at that final doodle. It felt... hopeful. It's not like I know where any of this is going, she scribbled as a tiny caption. But at least now I have a plan.
She closed the notebook softly, the pages whispering shut. The checklist felt heavy in her mind and light on her heart. Tonight she allowed herself to just be Clara: someone unsure, someone learning.
Lying in bed, Clara pulled up the covers and stared out the window at the distant city lights. A gentle quiet fell over Manhattan. She realized that for the first time, she felt more ordinary than before, and that felt like progress. Tomorrow, she'd put her plan to the test — with Mark or someone else, or even just buying another lemon tart with her own swirling cash.
She drifted off with a small smile. Even if she still had no idea who she was beneath all the smiles and prizes, at least now she had a sense of direction. Who knew? Being a little less "perfect" might just be exactly what she needed.
Chapter 10: Testing His Immunity
Clara stepped into the ticket office like she was conquering Everest in stilettos. The day was warm and bright enough to cut diamond, and she felt a triumphant flush as she ordered the jazz club tickets. The ticket clerk's expression twisted from routine ennui to stunned disbelief as she swiped her credit card. He squinted first at the card terminal and then at her face, clearly wondering which one of them might vanish if he closed his eyes.
"Two tickets to Jazz Noir at The Velvet Crescent, please," Clara said, trying to sound casual even as her heart did an excited flip. The clerk's eyes flicked between the screen and her, as if expecting the price to disappear. "Twenty dollars each, $40 total," he said slowly, reading the total on the screen like it might morph into something smaller.
It felt to Clara as though she had just announced she was paying for the entire club single-handedly. She could practically hear triumphant horns playing in the background. Letting a small, smug smile slip, she enjoyed the moment. Yes, she thought, I'm buying these myself – whoo! Watching her bank balance dip was a strangely delicious rebellion. "Charm School," she remembered wryly, where her cue cards had drilled her to remain gracious. In that spirit, she added aloud, "We're saving the other two tickets for next time."
The clerk's eyebrows shot up like brass sax keys being hammered at a crescendo. "Saving two?" he repeated, already punching in the new total. Clara nearly chuckled at his visible confusion. He handed her the total — this time $80 — and she paid promptly with cash, handing over a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Something in Charm School rule #27 had once whispered: when in doubt, pay in cash and watch the magic happen. Maybe he'd faint if he saw her credit line, but at least a hundred-dollar bill was unambiguous.
Finally, the clerk handed Clara the two golden-hued tickets as if they had been carved from sunlight. She traced the embossed lettering on the stub: "Jazz Noir at The Velvet Crescent." Velvet, brass, and candlelight – even seeing the name on a ticket gave her a little thrill of defiance. This was her victory. She slipped the tickets into her purse and, in her head, named the scene "Ticket Purchase Victory," complete with imaginary triumphant horns. Clara grinned to herself, certain that this small conquest of normality was worth savoring for days to come.
Stepping back out into the late afternoon light, Clara kept humming a low, victorious tune. In a moment of exaggerated triumph, she puffed out her chest and imagined the city congratulating her for this small act of independence. The world would have to adjust to this new Clara — a spending-spree warrior, making even pigeons step aside in respect.
The club's door opened with a soft creak, releasing a wave of low jazz and warm air. Clara stepped inside The Velvet Crescent like it was a second skin, instantly surrounded by velvety shadow and the gentle glow of old Edison bulbs. The walls were draped in deep burgundy curtains that felt as plush as a favorite blanket, and the polished wood bar reflected amber candlelight from its brass fixtures. Rich bass notes thrummed in the air, vibrating through the floorboards and into Clara's toes. A smoky haze curled around the room like a lazy jazz ghost, mingling with the scent of warm whiskey and a hint of jasmine from someone's perfume.
Across the aisle an elderly couple swayed slightly to the music, eyes closed as if moved by a private memory. A waiter in a crisp vest refilled a bourbon for a man at the bar, and someone elsewhere swirled a Manhattan with relaxed satisfaction. Even the chipped brass saxophones hanging on the walls seemed to grin down at the scene. Despite her efforts to appear absorbed, Clara could hear every shuffle and clink from across the room, each sound stitching her further into the evening's tapestry.
She had arrived early and chose a booth near the stage, her favorite vantage point. The table was just wide enough to hold two drinks and his elbow, just as she'd secretly hoped. From this corner, Clara watched the musicians set up: a saxophonist quietly riffing a mellow tune, a drummer tapping brushes on a snare drum, and a singer adjusting a vintage brass microphone that gleamed under a single spotlight. The scene felt both nostalgic and alive. If New York nights had a soundtrack, it was the gentle hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and warm vinyl tones blending perfectly with the music.
Clara pulled out a slender notebook from her purse, pretending to consult it. She had even practiced her greeting on the walk over, straightening her shoulders and smiling just enough. Charm School had once recommended memorizing a calm phrase to seem more down-to-earth. In this moment, the notebook was her handshake. Inside, she'd neatly ruled lines for an expense tally — an old private joke come to life. She scribbled at the top: "Jazz Noir Date: $", as if she were a miniature accountant running the numbers. Cue card from Charm School: record the little things to show you care about balance.
The joke made her smile; Mark would probably roll his eyes at this one. She tapped the pen to her lips, trying to calm the faint flutter in her stomach. Charm School lesson: breathe normally and don't fidget. The bartender soon placed two sparkling waters on the table with a polite nod, ice clinking softly in the low light.
The sudden jingle of the doorbell made Clara jump. Her heart did another little flip at the sound. Clara gave a quick mental thank-you to every etiquette handbook she'd ever cracked open. Through the doorway stepped Mark, looking every bit the serious New Yorker in a well-tailored suit. He scanned the room with calm confidence and, spotting her, flashed a half-smile that was more curious than sweet. Clara tucked an imaginary victory ribbon behind that—a small triumph in itself—and straightened her shoulders, ready to meet his gaze like a Charm School graduate on her first test.
Clara didn't skip a beat. She reopened her notebook, one eye on Mark to make sure he caught the joke, the other on the two sparkling waters between them. Delicately, as if still performing a private violin solo, she began jotting numbers next to each glass and plate on the table. "Water – $0 (priceless refreshing), Tasting Tapas – $15," she wrote in neat script, flicking a glance at Mark's face. He leaned forward slightly, hiding a growing grin, as he took in the makeshift ledger laid out on the table between them. "Seriously?" he muttered, a smile already tugging at his lips.
Clara couldn't resist a self-satisfied grin. "I promise, I'm not planning to itemize our entire evening," she said, voice playful. "Just thought I'd keep us on track. Charm School taught me the importance of balance sheets!" She tapped the page where she'd written the first two entries, as if certifying their equality. "Now we're even. See? Each of us has spent $0 on water. Very equitable."
She scribbled one more line at the bottom with a flourish: "Net balance = cosmic smiles." Then she closed the notebook with a little flourish, sealing the joke like a deal. Clara gave Mark a playful salute. "Your move," she said with a wide grin.
Mark laughed, shaking his head. "You're treating this date like a corporate budget meeting, Clara. I'm not sure I see the romance in it." He glanced at the ghost of her inventory and back at her amused face. "I'm definitely not the type to find spreadsheets sexy," he added with a wink.
Clara shrugged, feigning innocence. "I think 'romance' comes with the food. Right now, I'm engineering our budgetary romance. It's adorable, right?" She raised her pen in a mock toast. "To romance and reconciled accounts."
He chuckled, reaching out to gently ruffle a napkin on the table. "Well, this is certainly the most organized date I've ever been on," he said. "But trust me, I'm impressed. You're not making it easy to treat you like the princess of privilege I've heard about."
Clara gave him a sly smile. "Ah, I always thought I'd wear that crown in a comedy, not on a date." She flipped her hair over one shoulder, playing it off. The humor masked the prickle of surprise in her chest, but a warm glow of amusement chased it away. Mark's offhand remark felt almost affectionate in its bluntness. She felt protected by their shared joke, even as she sensed something shifting in the air.
They lingered over the water, the jazz now back in full swing around them. Mark finally drew a breath and spoke, his tone shifting from light teasing to quiet candor. "I'll be honest," he said, looking her in the eye. "I have a bias against beautiful people. It's not your fault — it's just how I am. Honestly, it's come up too many times. People see a pretty face, and it's like I'm expected to apologize for something. By default, you're already winning at life, and I hate that." Clara blinked, taken aback by the bluntness. Her mind flashed through every wry "By default" joke she'd told herself; hearing it directed at her cut deeper than she expected. She had never heard anyone put it so plainly.
Under the dim light, Clara took a breath, the cool glass of her water grounding her nerves. "Apologize... for what exactly?" she asked carefully, forcing the tone to stay light. Mark folded his arms on the table, leaning in. "For being born that way, I guess. People like you — they're entitled by default. You didn't even apply for the position, but everyone treats you like the CEO of Charm or something. I wonder if you even notice it or if it's just second nature to you," he said quietly. He winced a little at his own words and quickly added, "Look, I didn't mean to sound cruel. I'm just tired of assumptions."
Clara tugged at the napkin in her lap, hiding how sharply her heart stung. She took a slow breath. "I get it. I really do," she said softly, keeping her voice steady. "It's automatic for people to expect the best from me, just as it's automatic for me to expect someone like you to look past the surface." She forced a small chuckle to break the tension. "But hey, if it means I get to enjoy this jazz and company from someone stubborn enough to challenge me, maybe being born 'fortunate' isn't all bad."
Mark softened his expression, clearly realizing he'd stepped on a tender note. "I shouldn't treat you like a problem," he said gently. "It's just… it's refreshing to meet someone who actually calls me on it. You being here, doing all this, means something. You said it's not about the money — do you mean that?"
Clara looked down at her hands, twisting the corner of the coaster in her fingers to hide their slight tremble. The conversation felt tight around her like the smoky haze of the club. She nodded slowly. "I mean it. I wanted to prove I'm not that trophy you told me I was." She met his eyes and added, quieter, "Tonight was never about testing you, honestly. Well… maybe a little."
Mark watched her carefully. Then, with a small, relieved smile, he said, "All right. I get it. But promise me something — no more tallies? Let's just be… normal people for a while."
Clara returned his smile with one of her own, relief and something warmer mixing in her chest. "Deal," she whispered.
The night air was cool as Clara walked away from The Velvet Crescent. The neon sign buzzed off to one side, showering the sidewalk in a faded pink glow. She lingered a moment under it, the sound of saxophones still pulsing faintly through the club's walls. New York at night was alive and indifferent: a honking taxi idled by, steam rose from a street grate, and a distant siren wove through traffic. None of it seemed to care about the words spoken inside, but Clara did.
She replayed the conversation in her head like a scratched vinyl record. Mark's words echoed: "People like you — they're entitled by default." Her stomach tightened at the memory. By default. That little phrase felt like a crystallized accusation, a verdict she hadn't expected to face. Clara pressed a palm to her forehead, as if to quiet the echo, but the city's distant hum mingled with the beating of her heart instead.
Charm School had never covered this particular scenario. There was no cue card for gut punches delivered over candlelight. She sighed and looked up at the starless sky. The streetlight above danced on the wet pavement, painting watery gold patterns in the darkness. A bus door hissed open behind her, and Clara stepped inside, the late hour leaving the back seats nearly empty. She found a window seat, buttoned her coat a little tighter, and watched the city lights blur into golden streaks against the glass.
Clara imagined the jazz club fading behind her into silence, but in her mind it was still vivid: the honeyed stage lights, the coolness of the ticket stubs in her bag, Mark's serious face. Each detail piled on her emotions. In the reflection on the window, she saw herself as young and pretty, and yet suddenly very insecure. She bit her lip, cheeks tingling, as a tear threatened to slip from the corner of one eye. No one was watching; the bus rocked gently as she closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself feel the weight of doubt and disappointment.
What had she expected? Maybe part of her had secretly hoped Mark would simply see Clara — the normal girl inside — not any lofty title or ticket. But he had seen the cage of expectation around her, and it hurt. She remembered how he had asked if she even noticed the privileges or took them for granted. Did she deserve to have her beauty count against her? A tiny voice in Clara's chest whispered both yes and no at once, and she didn't know which answer was right.
By the time the bus looped toward her street, Clara had shaken off most of the tears. She kept replaying a small, crucial part of the conversation: Mark's offhand question, "Do you mean that?" — and how she had answered truthfully. She had meant it; it was the truth, fragile as it might be. Holding onto that fragile truth, Clara managed a small rueful smile. When she reached her stop and stepped onto the curb, she whispered to herself, "Next time, I'm sticking to water. That's actually a great deal."
Clara arrived home in the early hours, her apartment quiet except for the distant hum of the city. She peeled off her coat and heels, shrugging off the day like an evening gown, and let the apartment's silence wash over her. On her bedroom desk sat the little keepsake box she'd inherited from her grandmother — an old wooden box painted a worn white with gilded edges. Clara took a deep breath before opening it.
Inside were ticket stubs and playbills from past adventures: a rock concert in Brooklyn, a Midtown art-show opening, and the faded invitation to her very first solo gallery exhibit. Each item was carefully arranged like trophies of a life she was proud to have lived. Gently, she placed the jazz club playbill into the box beside the others. Next to it, she tucked in the receipt for the tickets she had so proudly bought herself tonight. She ran a fingertip along the handwritten total and date on the receipt, letting herself savor the small victory once more.
The room smelled faintly of lavender lotion and last night's takeout. City lights shimmered through the window, painting the drawer's contents in soft shadow and silver light. Clara closed the box. It clicked shut — solid and final — weighty with meaning. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the old keepsake box. The night's emotions caught up with her — pride and doubt mingled in her chest as she finally allowed herself to relax her tense shoulders.
A smile tugged at the corner of Clara's lips as she whispered to herself, "Not bad for an entitled princess, huh?" Her voice was low and private, but she meant every word. Then, with a soft click, she turned off the lamp. In the darkness, Clara felt the glow of something new stirring inside her — something more real than privilege, a quiet resilience that would carry on into tomorrow.