Endurance

At midday, Café Lucerne hums with soft light and gentle stillness: a band of winter sun cutting through tall glass, the city’s noise reduced to a faint lullaby by double-paned windows. Jamie Kingsley begins her lunch hour with a familiar ritual at her window-side two-top—tote bag on the chair, phone flipped face down, legal pad neatly aligned with the table’s edge. The white marble chills her wrists as she slips off her navy gloves one finger at a time, setting them beside her notes before nudging her glasses higher on her nose. Outside, passersby hurry past, heads low, shoulders braced against the Lake Michigan wind, none glancing in.

She checks her watch—12:12, early as usual. Punctuality clings to her, born from an architect’s discipline and her sister’s constant race to stay ahead. In the cafe window, Jamie studies her reflection: pale, composed, hair pulled back with surgical precision. For a moment she wonders if she looks more like an architect or someone straight out of a ’90s Gap ad, then decides there’s no difference.

Her eyes sweep the room: two older women at the pastry case, a young couple splitting a too-sweet pastry at a table far too big, a man in a checkered shirt hunched over his laptop. Two tables away, a mother wrangles a squirming toddler, the child’s mouth shaping almost-words. Jamie’s gaze lingers a beat too long before she shifts back to the empty chair across from her.

Amber Riley-Stevens, a slender woman in her mid-30s, breezes in, all at once: tailored coat in robin’s-egg blue, scarf knotted in a perfect French loop, red hair in a glossy blowout. She pauses just inside the door, scanning the bistro with her bright blue eyes, then spots Jamie and beams with relief.

“Sorry! Sorry, I had to move a delivery, and the parking meter guy was circling like a vulture,” Amber calls, voice bright and warm and slightly too loud for the room. She navigates to the table in a blur of good taste—Céline bag, low suede heels, a manicure flawless even in mid-December.

Jamie stands, not quite awkwardly, and offers Amber the better seat, the one facing the entrance and with the sun at her back. Amber shrugs out of her coat, drapes it over the chair, and sits with practiced grace.

“I’m early,” Jamie admits, smoothing the legal pad, “So we’re technically right on time.

Amber laughs, which is both genuine and slightly rehearsed, and then orders them both waters with lemon when the server materializes. She waits until the server leaves before launching into it: “You look so put together, Jamie. I swear, if you weren’t in architecture you’d be running a think tank.”

“Or a modeling agency for people who like spreadsheets,” Jamie replies, deadpan. She lifts her water, and they clink glasses in a toast neither of them names.

They order: Jamie a greens-and-pickled-beet salad, Amber the turkey-avocado sandwich. Amber hesitates, then tacks on a double espresso. “Don’t judge me, I was up until one working on the color samples for Lincoln West. The new developer wants everything in ‘mid-century neutral’ and I want to throw myself into the river.”

“I’d help you with that, but the current’s too slow for a dramatic exit this time of year,” Jamie offers. “And besides, you can’t leave the firm until we finish the Uptown project. You’re the only interior designer I trust not to put a hammock in the lobby.”

“Why not? You should see what the new tenants ask for. Last month a tech CEO requested a ‘zen nap chamber’ next to the mailboxes. I told him to buy a beanbag and save himself the build-out fee.” Amber’s hands animate her stories—slicing, sketching, framing the space in front of her. Jamie likes watching people who talk with their hands; it makes their words feel kinetic, alive in the air.

They talk shop for a while, the way they always do when it’s safe. The development project, the never-ending meetings, the scheduling nightmares. Jamie describes her latest headache—project manager with a Napoleon complex, double-booking the structural team and then blaming her when the budget overruns. Amber’s sympathy is genuine. “You need to threaten him with an Excel audit. I once got a contractor to cave by cc’ing his wife on the correspondence.” Jamie laughs, real and sharp.

But the conversation doesn’t stay in neutral. Amber leans forward, lowering her voice. “Can I tell you something?” She waits for Jamie’s nod before continuing. “Kenny’s driving me insane lately. I mean, I love him, but he’s barely home, and when he is, he’s glued to game tape or ESPN Classic.” She sighs, stirs the straw in her water, then says, “It’s not like we’re fighting, it’s just… lonely, I guess.”

Jamie listens with her whole face, the way Becky used to when she was in a rare good mood. She asks all the right questions: “Is it work? Stress? You think he’d go to counseling?” And then, softer: “Are you okay, really?”

Amber’s smile crumples at the corners. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. It’s just… you ever look around and think, ‘I have all this, but it’s not what I pictured?’”

“All the time,” Jamie answers, almost too quickly. She catches herself and smooths the napkin in her lap.

A pause. Amber takes out her phone and opens a photo, angling the screen toward Jamie. “This is the only thing that makes it better: look at this face.” The photo is of a toddler—long red hair, bangs cut with surgical precision, wide blue eyes beneath cartoonishly arched brows. The child is grinning at a stack of letter blocks, spelling out SONYA in a crooked row.

Jamie blinks. “She’s huge! Wasn’t she like a preemie or something?”

Amber nods, pride warming her features. “Three pounds at birth. Now she’s in the 95th percentile for height. She’s going to play for the Chicago Sky, I swear.”

Jamie studies the photo a moment longer. “She’s adorable. And the blocks—early literacy, huh?”

Amber nods. “She already knows all the colors and can count to twenty. Well, she skips eleven, but who needs it?”

“She’s a prodigy. Or at least a very advanced scam artist,” Jamie says, passing the phone back. “And Sonya—she’s loving school?”

“Thriving,” Amber says, voice brightening. “Senior year. She got named co-captain of the cross-country team. She’s bringing her boyfriend home for Christmas, which is… well, we’ll see.” She laughs. “At least she’s not out partying.”

Jamie sips her sparkling water, eyes wandering to the window where a toddler in a booster seat presses tiny hands against the glass, puffing perfect circles of fog. She runs a finger along the rim of her glass, watching the child’s mother gently guide her back with a light touch on the arm, a wordless comfort. Jamie feels the quiet ache, the subtle pull toward a life with softer edges.

Amber is watching her. “You ever think about having kids? I mean, you’d be the best mom. Or at least the best at finding the best day care,” she teases.

Jamie shrugs, more a rolling of the shoulders than anything else. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I can’t even keep succulents alive. And dating is a wasteland right now.” She makes a face. “I went to a happy hour with Becky last week and the only guy who talked to me was trying to sell me insurance.”

Amber snorts. “You should meet someone the old-fashioned way. Random meet-cute in a coffee shop, awkward hand-holding, instant spark.” Amber continues, bright smile. "Or, you can meet him in a library, like I met Kenny."

Jamie is about to make a joke about romantic comedies when she notices the man at the bar, seated a few stools down from the checkered-shirt laptop guy. He’s younger—maybe late twenties, with dark hair and a face that could belong to an outfielder or an indie band lead singer. He lifts his coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast toward her, eyes locked on hers for a beat too long.

Jamie looks away, heat blooming in her ears. Amber catches the interaction, and her eyebrows inch upward.

“Well, well. That didn’t take long,” Amber says, sotto voce.

Jamie laughs, shaking her head. “He’s probably a serial killer. Or a mortgage broker.”

Amber gathers her things, stacking the napkin on her empty plate. “I should go, I’ve got a client consult at one. But if you decide to pursue Mr. Tall, Dark, and Intense, text me all the details. I live vicariously now.”

Jamie stands as Amber shrugs into her coat. Amber leans in for a hug, which Jamie accepts with a hint of surprise. Amber’s voice is a murmur in her ear: “Seriously, you deserve to be happy, Jamie.”

Jamie nods, but her gaze drifts back to the bar. The man is still there, still watching, but he pretends not to notice her as he stirs a second packet of sugar into his coffee.

Amber leaves, her scent a whiff of citrus and fresh linen. Jamie remains, smoothing her legal pad, realigning her glasses. Through the window, the toddler waves goodbye to nothing in particular, palm pressed flat against the glass, leaving a perfect print behind.

Jamie sits alone at the table for a minute, heart still fluttering in the aftermath of Amber’s words and the stranger’s lingering gaze. She picks up her phone, then sets it down again. There are deadlines, there is work to do, but for now, she just lets herself sit in the rare, sunlit quiet, the city briefly on pause, waiting to see what happens next.

Jamie stays at her table longer than necessary, stretching the lunch hour to its upper limit. With Amber gone, the room settles into a less animated rhythm—just the hum of espresso machines and the soft, hollow clink of glassware from the bar. She stacks her salad bowl atop her empty plate, then unpacks her planner and the half-dozen color-coded pens she keeps for emergencies both creative and existential. The discipline of ink and time blocks is soothing, a way to stave off the slow creep of anxiety that always follows too much personal conversation.

She’s blocking out her Thursday—call with the HVAC consultants at one, Zoom check-in with Becky at two, site walkthrough at three—when she feels eyes on her again. She tries to ignore it, tells herself it’s the usual paranoia, but then the chair across from her scuffs backward.

“Mind if I?” The man from the bar is suddenly at her table, standing with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s never been told no, or else doesn’t care when he is. Up close, he looks younger than Jamie guessed—maybe late twenties, with skin the color of a late-summer tan, and hair that manages to be both artfully tousled and perfectly deliberate. He’s wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket, the collar flipped up against the cold.

Jamie looks up at him over her glasses, not unfriendly but not welcoming either. “Is this about the window seat?” she asks, one brow arched.

He grins, showing the slightly crooked incisor that makes his smile all the more real. “I promise I’m not here for the view. Unless you count the company.”

Jamie lets the silence hang for a second, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She slides her planner to the side, but doesn’t close it.

He sits, folding his hands on the table like he’s expecting to be grilled. “I’m Kyle,” he says, and offers his hand. His palms are calloused, not the kind you get from kettlebells at a boutique gym, but from doing things that require real friction.

Jamie takes his hand for a quick, efficient shake. “Jamie.”

He nods, pleased. “You looked like you could use a rescue from your own to-do list.”

She considers him. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“I know the look,” he counters, leaning in. “I used to date a project manager for a construction firm. She had the same glare whenever she realized the submittal paperwork was out of sequence.” He’s good, Jamie admits. He does not look away. “Plus, you’ve been sipping that sparkling water for twenty minutes and haven’t touched your phone. Most people these days can’t last sixty seconds.”

Jamie glances at her phone, then at him. “Is this where you try to guess my passcode, too?”

He laughs. “No, that’s where I ask you to let me buy you a refill, but I get the feeling you’d rather stick with what you’ve got.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jamie says, and for the first time, she smiles.

Kyle signals the server, orders himself another coffee, and—after a sidelong glance at Jamie—asks if she wants anything else. She declines. He sips from the mug, savoring it, then says, “So, what’s your deal?”

“Excuse me?” Jamie’s tone is lightly incredulous.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re the first person I’ve seen in here who didn’t Instagram their lunch. You’re either in deep cover, or you’re actually interesting.”

Jamie laughs, a single, unguarded note. “That’s one hell of an opening line.”

Kyle shrugs, shameless. “I figure I’ll save us both some time. Most people don’t like honesty, but I’ve found it’s efficient.”

Jamie cocks her head. “You work in sales?”

“Close. Creative problem-solving. I do contract work—sometimes for real companies, sometimes for people who just need things fixed. No set hours, no HR memos. Lots of time in cafes.”

She tries to pin him down, but his answers are like water on marble—always rolling off, never quite pooling anywhere. “What sort of things do you fix?”

He shrugs. “Whatever pays. I’ve installed security systems, run interference for lawyers, set up entire events in twelve hours flat. My specialty is figuring out what the client actually wants, even if they won’t say it.”

She eyes him, equal parts amused and annoyed. “That sounds like a euphemism for something illegal.”

“Depends on your definition,” Kyle deadpans. “But I draw the line at anything with more than a five-year minimum.”

Jamie snorts. She catches herself smiling and hides it behind her water glass. “You’re very charming, Kyle.”

“It’s the only marketable skill I have,” he says, and there’s just enough self-mockery in it to keep him from sounding smug.

He glances at her legal pad, at the neat blocks of handwriting, the tiny schematic sketches in the margins. “You’re an architect?” he guesses.

She nods, surprised. “How’d you know?”

“It’s the glasses. And the penmanship.” He pauses, lets it land. “Also, you have ‘site walkthrough’ on your planner. I pay attention.”

Jamie leans back, letting herself relax for the first time all day. “Let me guess—you’re going to tell me you always wanted to be an architect but got distracted by the criminal underworld.”

Kyle grins. “No way. I’m not that cliche. My high school guidance counselor told me to be a welder. Guess she thought I was good with my hands.”

Jamie doesn’t miss the innuendo, but she doesn’t call it out either. She watches him, sizing him up with the cool remove she usually reserves for site inspections. He holds her gaze, unblinking.

“So, Jamie,” Kyle says, “can I ask you a question?”

“Only if it’s not about my passcode.”

He smiles. “Would you ever go to lunch with a stranger?”

Jamie raises both eyebrows. “Is that what this is?”

“No. This is reconnaissance. Lunch would be the first date.”

She wants to say no, to deflect, but his confidence is a little intoxicating. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, buys herself a second. “I don’t usually give my number to people I meet in cafes.”

“Usually,” Kyle echoes. “But not always?”

She sighs, lets her guard drop another fraction. “You’re persistent.”

“I’m efficient,” he says, and pulls out his phone, ready but not presumptuous. “I won’t text you weird memes at 2 AM, I promise.”

Jamie hesitates. Her fingers drum the tabletop, then still. She’s aware of the risk, the probability curve of this ending anywhere but badly, but for some reason, she wants to see what he’ll do next.

She takes his phone, enters her number, and hands it back. “You get one text. Make it good.”

Kyle looks at her, dead serious for the first time. “Challenge accepted.”

He stands, pays for his coffee, and heads for the door. Jamie expects him to look back, but he doesn’t. She watches him through the window as he crosses the street—cutting diagonally, jaywalking, immune to the wind or the rules.

She stares at her own hands for a long moment, then picks up her pen and finishes blocking out the afternoon. But her mind isn’t on the schedule. It’s on the way Kyle never asked for permission, just took the chair, the risk, the opening.

For the first time in ages, she feels the edge of excitement—a sense that something unplanned might actually be better than the blueprint. She closes her planner, slides it into her tote, and heads back to the world outside, not quite ready to admit she’s curious, but not denying it either.