Two and a Half Times

I asked Ryan about this more than once afterward — what exactly he saw, the first time he noticed me.

I always assumed the answer would be something ordinary.

My face. My dress. Or at least something romantic enough to open a love story with.

Instead, Ryan said:

"Your hands."

"My hands?"

"You were making something."

"So the first thing you noticed about me was my hands?"

He thought about it.

"Not exactly."

"Then what?"

Ryan looked at me, the corner of his mouth already curling up.

"Do you really want the honest answer?"

I went on alert immediately.

"Tell me."

"I noticed you first. Then your hands. Then your mouth."

I laughed right away.

"I knew it."

"No, you didn't."

"So the first time you saw me, you were staring at my mouth?"

"You did the same thing."

"That was later."

Ryan shook his head.

"No."

"It was."

"Two minutes. Maybe three."

"How could you possibly remember that?"

"I remember."

We argued about every detail of that first meeting for years afterward.

The one thing that was never in dispute was this:

Ryan really did walk past my table more than once.

Whether it was two times, three times, or the "two and a half" he insisted on later — even years later, we never agreed.

It was a Saturday afternoon.

I was at a small makers market, set up inside a converted old warehouse — tall brick walls, black steel beams hanging from the ceiling. Someone was selling coffee by the door. Inside, dozens of booths were packed together: pottery, candles, jewelry, watercolors, woodwork, handmade soap. There was even a little craft table in the corner for kids.

My booth was, as always, the messiest one there.

Everyone else had matching tablecloths, neat price tags, pretty displays. Mine looked like someone had dragged an entire workbench in from home.

Finished pieces up front. Behind them, a pile of pliers, beads, thread, paper, a few boxes of paint, a sketchbook, half a cup of iced coffee already melting, and three experiments I'd decided to bring that morning on a whim.

I was making change and explaining materials at the same time, occasionally crouching down to pick something up off the floor.

A girl, maybe seven or eight, stood at my table for a long time.

She was making a little pendant.

Halfway through, she hesitated between two colors.

"What color should I use?"

I glanced over.

"Which one do you like?"

She pointed at the purple.

Her mother spoke up immediately. "That one doesn't really match. The sample is blue."

The girl's hand stopped.

I nudged the box of purple beads a little closer to her.

"Then use purple."

She looked up at me.

"But the sample—"

"That's the sample."

I pointed at the piece in her hand.

"This one is yours."

She thought about it for two seconds, then grabbed the purple.

I had no idea that a few feet away, someone had slowed their pace.

The first time, Ryan just walked by.

He told me later that he hadn't even wanted to come to the market that day.

A coworker's wife had a booth. A friend had dragged him along, insisting he couldn't spend an entire weekend bouncing between the hospital, the gym, and home.

Ryan's original plan had been simple: show up, say hello, stay twenty minutes, leave.

So the first time he passed my table, he didn't stop.

At least, not according to Ryan's version.

According to mine —

he clearly slowed down.

The second time, I noticed him.

Because I've always had a good memory for faces.

Especially good-looking ones.

I was straightening things up on my table when I looked up and saw a man crossing the room.

Tall. Dark T-shirt. Simple pants. Nothing deliberate about the way he was dressed.

He was listening to a friend beside him, but when he reached my table, he glanced down at it.

Then he looked at me.

Our eyes met for a second.

He nodded, easily, naturally.

I nodded back.

That was it.

He kept walking.

I went back to straightening things.

A few seconds later, I found myself glancing up again anyway, at his back.

Pretty handsome, I thought.

That was my only comment at the time. Then I went back to work.

The third time — or what Ryan later insisted on calling the "half" time — he finally stopped.

I was bagging something up for a customer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing on the other side of the table.

"Hi, I'll be with you in one second."

"No rush."

A nice voice.

I looked up.

Him again.

This time I really did recognize him.

I handed the customer her bag, and once she'd walked off, I turned back.

"You've been here before."

Ryan blinked, clearly caught off guard.

"What?"

"You walked past here."

"I've been walking around."

"You've walked past twice."

"Have I?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"You don't know?"

He actually thought about it, seriously.

"Maybe."

I laughed.

"Okay."

Later, Ryan insisted that was the exact moment he started finding me interesting.

Because the normal response would have been:

Hi, can I help you?

And mine was:

I noticed you circling back.

He looked down at the things on my table.

"You made all of these?"

"Most of them."

"Most?"

I pointed at a small piece in the corner that clearly didn't match the style of everything else.

"That one was an experiment."

"An experiment?"

"A failed one."

Ryan glanced down at it. Paused for two seconds.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"But you thought it."

The corner of his mouth finally moved.

"I was going to say it has a different aesthetic."

I looked at him.

"You're good with words."

"Occupational hazard."

"Sales?"

"No."

"Lawyer?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Pediatrics."

I paused.

"You're a pediatrician?"

"Yeah."

I looked at him again. For some reason, the profession suited him. Calm. Clean. Unhurried. Not the type who rushes to advertise himself the moment he opens his mouth.

"So that's a doctor's answer — you can't just tell someone their work is ugly."

Ryan laughed.

"Pretty much."

We talked a little more. He asked if the crafts were full-time work for me.

I said no, I had a regular job.

"What do you do?"

"Data."

"Data?"

"Analytics."

He glanced at the table again. Then at me.

"That wasn't what I expected."

I latched onto that immediately.

"Why? People who do data can't also make things with their hands?"

Ryan laughed helplessly.

"I'm learning to be careful with my answers around you."

"Good."

"What else do you do?"

"Why?"

"I'm curious."

I thought about it.

"I paint."

He nodded. "Okay."

"I climb."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Okay."

"Sometimes I dance."

He started laughing.

"Anything else?"

"I play piano."

Ryan looked at me.

"You're making this up."

I laughed.

"Why would I?"

"Every answer is a different person."

"That just means your imagination isn't good enough."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Fair."

I figured the conversation would end there. But Ryan didn't leave.

He even picked up a sketchbook I'd left lying open on the table.

"Can I?"

"You're asking now?"

He'd already opened it.

The first page was a half-finished portrait from a few days earlier.

Ryan looked at it for a while.

"You drew this?"

"Mm-hm."

"Who is she?"

"No one."

He looked up.

"No one?"

"Just someone who doesn't exist."

"Why draw someone who doesn't exist?"

That question was the first thing that made me really look at him.

Not because he was handsome.

Because the question was actually interesting.

"Because you don't need someone to exist in order to draw them."

Ryan looked at me.

I went on. "You know, in movies, the character doesn't have to exist either."

"Actors exist."

"The character doesn't."

"Fair."

When he said fair, the corner of his mouth twitched again.

That was the exact moment my gaze, without my permission, dropped for a second.

To his mouth.

Just a second. Maybe shorter.

But my brain managed to run a very long way in that one second.

If I actually dated this man...

I wondered what it would feel like to kiss him.

Would he be as restrained as the way he talked? Lean in slowly, and wait for me?

Or would it be nothing like that at all?

I looked away immediately. Felt oddly guilty about it, too.

I didn't even know this person's name yet.

"Ryan."

As if he'd somehow heard exactly what was going through my head, he said it out of nowhere.

I blinked. "What?"

"I'm Ryan."

"Oh."

I told him my name.

He repeated it. Got the pronunciation wrong the first time.

I corrected him.

He said it again. This time, right.

"Better?"

"Acceptable."

"High praise."

Another customer came up just then. I had to get back to work.

Ryan stepped aside a little.

I assumed he'd finally leave.

When I finished with the customer, he was still there.

"You're still here?"

"That sounds like you want me to be."

"I was just making an observation."

Ryan looked at me. "Observation?"

"Not a complaint."

He laughed.

Neither of us knew, at the time, that the line would become one of the many things we'd repeat to each other for years.

Ryan finally left.

Before he did, he pulled out his phone. Paused.

"Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Would you want to get coffee sometime?"

A very ordinary question. No pickup line. Nothing rehearsed. In fact, he said it so plainly that I froze for a second.

Then the first thing that popped into my head was that same image I'd told myself not to have.

His mouth.

I mentally cursed myself.

"Sure."

Ryan handed me his phone. I typed in my number. Gave it back.

He glanced at the screen.

"Is this real?"

I was stunned.

"You think I'd give you a fake one?"

"I don't know you yet."

"Then call it right now."

Ryan actually pressed the button.

My phone rang immediately on the table.

He looked up.

I looked back at him.

"Satisfied?"

"Very."

"Are all doctors this paranoid?"

"Only the good ones."

"So arrogant."

"Probably."

He turned to leave. A few steps out, he turned back.

"Thursday?"

I didn't catch it right away.

"What?"

"Coffee. Or dinner."

"You're asking me now?"

"I thought that was the point of getting your number."

I couldn't help laughing.

"Thursday works."

"Seven?"

"Why do you default to seven?"

Ryan paused.

"It's a reliable time."

"So boring."

"Six thirty?"

I laughed harder.

"Seven."

"Good."

This time he really left.

I went back to straightening my table. The little girl from earlier held up her finished pendant.

"Look!"

I crouched down right away.

"Oh, I love it."

Entirely purple. Nothing like the sample.

She looked immensely proud of herself.

I smiled too. But after she walked off, I found myself checking my phone.

No new message.

I flipped it face down on the table.

A minute later, I flipped it back over.

Right then, the screen lit up.

An unknown number. Just one line:

Ryan. The pediatrician who apparently walked past your table twice.

I looked at the screen and laughed. Then I replied:

Three times.

Very fast:

Two and a half.

I frowned.

How do you walk past someone half a time?

A moment later, he wrote back:

I changed my mind halfway.

I stared at that sentence for a long time.

Suddenly I understood — the third time, he hadn't just happened to pass by.

He'd already left.

Walked halfway out.

Then turned around.

I looked up toward where he'd gone. He was already out of sight.

That night, back home, I took out the sketchbook I hadn't finished at the market. I drew for ten minutes. Then stopped.

My phone was right there beside me. I had no real reason to expect a message, but I kept feeling like it should light up again.

Sure enough, a little after nine, Ryan wrote:

Still Thursday?

I smiled.

Yes.

A few seconds later:

Good.

Just one word.

I looked at it for a while. Then set the phone down. Drew two more lines. Still couldn't focus.

I found myself remembering that one second from the afternoon. His mouth. And that completely inappropriate fantasy.

I put the pencil down.

"Idiot."

I wasn't sure if I meant myself, or the man I'd known for only a few hours who had already made me start looking forward to Thursday.

Years later, I would sometimes still wonder:

What if Ryan hadn't changed his mind that afternoon?

What if he'd walked halfway and never turned back?

What if I hadn't looked up?

What if that little girl hadn't insisted on purple?

What if we'd just been two strangers who'd once shared a room and never learned each other's names?

Whenever Ryan heard that kind of question, he'd always say the same thing:

"You would've found something else to overthink."

I'd shove him. He'd laugh.

But once, I really did ask him:

"Why did you turn back that day?"

Ryan didn't answer right away. After a moment, he said:

"Because I knew if I left, I'd think about you."

"You didn't even know me yet."

"I know."

"So what would you have thought about?"

He looked at me.

"I'd wonder."

"Wonder what?"

Ryan smiled a little.

"What would've happened if I'd turned around."

He paused.

"So I did."

Back then, of course, neither of us had any idea what would come after.

We didn't know that when our first date ended, I really would kiss the mouth I'd secretly stared at earlier that week.

Didn't know he'd get jealous over some other man talking to me at the climbing gym.

Didn't know we'd fight, go quiet on each other, make up.

Didn't know we'd watch the sunrise together in Utah, or hold hands swimming into the dark in a cenote in Cancún.

Didn't know that one day, standing at a podium at some hospital awards event, he'd suddenly say my name and make the whole room turn to look for me.

Didn't know we'd go from dating, to living together, to a house we'd renovate together.

Didn't know there'd be a proposal, a wedding, two lines on a pregnancy test, and a child.

All of that was still a long way off.

That afternoon, nothing had happened yet.

There was only a man who had already been ready to leave.

Who walked out.

Stopped.

Changed his mind.

And turned around and walked back to my table.

Two and a half times.

That's Ryan's version.

I have always insisted —

three.