A Matter of Fate

It's a day vividly burned into my memory. It was a Tuesday morning. From a corner booth, I took a sip from a steaming mug—it was a little burnt, but I wasn't really there for the coffee. I was there for the woman who served it. Marilyn.

A bright woman, mid-twenties. She hadn't batted an eye when I ordered my coffee; she hadn't thought me anything out of the ordinary. No one does—I'm just an unassuming old man.

I watched as she poured and stirred and brewed each order as it came in with elegance and precision. She addressed each customer with crinkles beside her eyes. Totally unsuspecting that her life would forever change after today. After a few minutes, in fact.

It was just about time. My coffee disappeared, and I carried the empty mug to the bus bin, tipping my hat in thanks to the unwitting barista. She wished me well with a beaming smile and moved on to the next order.

Just down the street, I leaned against the trunk of a large oak tree. I peered up at its expansive branches and monstrous leaves, which would do well for my needs.

Right on schedule, Marilyn would be getting off work in—I checked my wrist—roughly 30 seconds. Which was perfect, because my second target was heading this way. His name is Brandon.

I don't often do in-depth reconnaissance on my targets before assignments, but on occasion it's nice to be invested. Brandon is independent and handsome in a traditional sense, has a steady job as a registered nurse, and cares very well for a rambunctious but well-meaning Great Dane he named Scooby. How amusing.

This assignment brought me to a small, quiet suburban town outside of Philadelphia. Not a soul knew of my whereabouts, you see; it's delicate work, one that is never to be discussed. Very few would understand.

It's occurring to me just now that I haven't yet introduced myself, and, rather, what I have told you might paint a…colorful description.

I am Fate.

Contrary to popular belief, it's my job to bring two hearts together, not a diaper-clad baby with bow and arrow. That's absurd. It is my responsibility to arrange the very introductions between two souls who are meant to be together, fated for each other.

I've been introducing soulmates for as long as I can remember. Creating the stories lovebirds repeat to friends and family, a memory they cherish for the rest of time. I love what I do; any romantic would.

Though, unfortunately, it can grow quite lonesome. Despite working with people, it's not collaborative, and though I create many connections, only one ever involved me.

I convince myself it doesn't bother me, but the ache I feel keeps me honest. That's enough about me.

Brandon and Marilyn are soulmates. And today is the day they meet.

I've got something nice planned; I hope they appreciate it. It's simple and chivalrous and will make a great story to tell at their upcoming nuptials. When rain pours down from the skies, Brandon will offer an unprepared Marilyn half of his umbrella. A spark so undeniable that the downpour becomes less an inconvenience and more an excuse to take cover in a cozy bakery over warm drinks and a croissant.

Ah, here is Marilyn now. She appeared around the corner of the cafe, lifting the apron from her shoulders, heading east toward the town's center.

Overhead, right on cue, the morning's bright sky turned ominous. In case you're squeamish about storms, thunder is going to strike in…three…two…Marilyn jumped as the storm announced itself, just as the skies opened, drenching her in a cold rain.

And here is Brandon, perfectly just a few paces behind—my own doing. He retrieved his umbrella, extending it over his head, but the wind picked up, forcing the umbrella wrong-side out with such force it mangled the ribs, rendering it useless, and certainly not shareable. Brandon stopped mid-stride and fumbled with it before giving up and retreating in a quick stride in the opposite direction.

It took my brain a few minutes to catch up to what had happened. The rhythmic drip of water on my nose shook me from my trance, and I found myself a few steps outside the tree's cover, my jaw slack. Their meet-cute! Foiled by the wind! This has never happened to me before.

Apparently, I was going to need a Plan B.

PLAN B

The rain ceased, mercifully. I sat down at a junction of two paths next to a man enjoying a rather large bag of sunflower seeds. The bench beneath me hardly dried out, but the park had a pleasantly sweet smell.

My hands wrung in my lap as I replayed the failure of the day before. Fate. Defeated by an overturned umbrella?

Plan B is one of my favorites, a tried and true classic that even the ‘romcoms’ have adopted as their own. But it required a little creativity—and a dog.

Marilyn doesn't have one, but her close friend does. I'd arranged for that friend to leave town abruptly, and fortuitously, Marilyn agreed to walk her poodle. She will walk Ms. Muffy right into Brandon and his Great Dane. Their dogs will pull and play and tangle their humans up in their leashes, and they will laugh and blush from forced proximity, and then, of course, fall in love.

I check my wrist again and dab the sweat gathering on my temples.

I caught sight of Brandon entering the north end of the park, Scooby in tow. Shortly, Marilyn would enter along the west side and intercept them.

“What's wrong with your wrist? You keep looking at it,” the man beside me garbled, discarding shells to the ground.

“I'm just checking the time.” I dismissed him, or had hoped to.

“But you haven't got a watch.”

“I don't mean to be rude, but I have very important matters to attend to.”

The man looked around, evidently under the impression I was doing nothing but enjoying a lovely morning in the park, and shot me a suspicious look. After mumbling what sounded like “weirdo,” the man clunkily rose from the bench, seeds falling along the path.

Good riddance.

As I returned my attention to the west entrance, a nearby squirrel standing on its hind legs turned and cocked its head at me.

“Go away. I need to focus,” I growled, shooing it with my hand—I didn't like the look it was giving me.

And that's when I should have known.

The squirrel darted toward the fallen seeds, catching the eye of Brandon's mammoth-sized dog. All Brandon could do was be tugged along as Scooby charged toward the squirrel, and unfortunately—me.

When my heart finally returned to a normal cadence, I found myself utterly tangled, alongside Brandon, in the leash of his Great Dane. Squirming to free myself, I caught sight of Marilyn and the poodle leaving the east side of the park.

“I thought this only happened in the movies,” Brandon laughed, wincing, embarrassed.

“Yeah, yeah.” I groan. 

PLAN C

Nothing gets in the way of meeting your soulmate quite like a date with someone else.

First the umbrella incident and then the dog-walking disaster. Every attempt I made to steer those two in the right direction only pushed them farther apart. Now, Marilyn had a date that night.

I perched in the corner of a festive taqueria, the very one Marilyn and the boy she'd met at the dog park had planned to meet at seven.

Marilyn arrived a few minutes early and was seated in what would have been a lovely booth for a first date. I winced every time she looked up at the door. I wasn't proud of my actions, but…desperate times. Her date was safe and unharmed. Temporarily delayed by an unexpected elevator malfunction. If he'd had cell service during his confinement, he surely would have rescheduled.

Meanwhile, Brandon's roommate had a sudden hankering for takeout and offered to pay if Brandon picked it up on his way home. Brandon would walk through the vestibule, they'd lock eyes across the lively eatery, and, serenaded by Jarabe Tapatío, they wouldn't be able to resist their connection. It was perfect, for a Plan C.

“Can I just get the check?” Marilyn asked, avoiding the waiter's eye when he came by.

Right on schedule, Brandon arrived to pick up his order. Now all that had to happen was for him to look up and see Marilyn. Except…Marilyn was gone.

I darted over to the waiter. “Excuse me, sir, what happened to the young woman who was here a second ago?”

He pointed to the bathrooms.

I glanced back. Brandon was still waiting, his food not yet ready. My hands itched at my sides. I don't usually get involved, but I had mere minutes.

Passing a long table bursting with lively diners, I found myself, beyond my better judgment, knocking on the bathroom door.

Muffled, a small “just a minute” came through the closed door.

“Are you alright, miss?”

She cracked the door open. Oh, her cheeks were tear-stained, the poor girl.

“I was stood up,” she sniffled.

“I am terribly sorry.” I meant every word.

She looked confused but brushed it away with a wave of her hand. “It's not your fault.”

I didn't respond. But instead I offered her the hankie from my front pocket. She took it, dabbed her eyes, and returned it to me.

“I'm here alone.” Something caught in my throat at the admission. I was no stranger to the feeling. I offered her my arm in solidarity. She took it, and we walked slowly down the hallway toward the dining area.

“If I may offer encouragement. Have faith that the one you’re meant to be with will always find you. Nothing can stand in the way of it.”

The sparkles along the sides of her eyes appeared, her glow returning.

This might not turn out so badly after all. We'd turn the corner. Brandon would look up. His compassionate heart would offer to walk her home, cracking various jokes to get her to cheer up. After that, he'd never stop trying to make her smile.

All we had to do was get to the end of this hallway.

And just as we did, the singing started.

The waitstaff swept past in a conga line, circling the table directly in front of us like a cyclone. They clapped and flailed to Feliz Cumpleaños, waving maracas and sparkling mini-torches. We were effectively hostages in the hallway, the conga line blocking us as Brandon grabbed his brown bag and slipped out.

Three plans in, I was beginning to question my professional qualifications. I'd brought countless people together. Why was this one different? Maybe the problem wasn't the plan. Maybe it was me.

PLAN D

“A Shirley Temple,” I told the bearded man behind the bar, “and make it strong.”

I found it hard to care about his look of pity or that my elbows stuck to the bartop. Hard, not impossible. I was discouraged, not dead.

These two were meant to be together. I was so sure of it. So why were my efforts failing? Was the assignment wrong?

I sipped the violently red drink.

Or was I?

Perhaps one had to know love before they could recognize it in others.

Hiccup.

My thoughts, intoxicated with a sugar rush, couldn't resist the pull of her memory. How I'd thought we were fated. She was sweet and simple and bold—like a rose, even down to the scent she carried with her. She was one of the few who truly understood me. She was “the one that got away”, which is pretty rich coming from me.

Three frilly glasses lined the counter; all that remained was the saccharine cherry sinking into the melting ice.

I pay my tab, slide off the stool, and waddle out into the street corner. It's foggy tonight, the air thick, but I hardly notice. I have a plan to brainstorm.

Marilyn would be walking this exact street in mere minutes after a late shift, and Brandon is working late tonight.

The pressure to come up with something foolproof drove my feet toward the crosswalk without my usual caution. I stepped onto the street.

A loud horn blew.

Then another.

Something caught the back of my sweater and jerked me backward. My feet left the pavement before my mind caught up. I find myself against what I can only guess to be the sidewalk; it's cool and a bit damp from all the rain.

For a heartbeat—silence.

Voices then stir around me, and they sound concerned, but I'm quite cozy here, supported by the concrete.

There was a slight smell of roses, and it's then I am sure I'm dreaming.

And that was the last thing I remembered.

Until I awoke in bed, and the overhead lights caused my head to swim. Steady beeping came from a machine with cords that connected to various parts of me. A tall man in bright blue scrubs walked into the room. He looked a whole lot like—

“Brandon?”

“So we did meet at the park. Good to see your memory is alright.”

“Yes, my memory…” I couldn't tell him I had no recollection of what happened after my night of drinking, let alone how I ended up here.

"Is he here? Is he okay!?" a panicked voice travels down the hallway, rising in volume. A short woman with eyes the size of dinner plates burst into the room.

Marilyn.

"I saw it happen! I called the ambulance. She pulled him back from getting squished by a bus!" She pointed to the empty doorway.

Brandon laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, loosening her panic. The simple gesture was enough to bring a tear to an old man's eye.

“Mission accomplished,” I sighed.

Thankfully, neither Brandon nor Marilyn noticed. What they did notice was each other. I looked at them, exchanging bashful glances while they spoke on a topic I knew was highly irrelevant to either of them. But that hardly matters when you've found the one? Right? He took down her phone number, and she glowed a bright red.

I rested my head down on the pillow and closed my eyes. I suppose this was better than the Plan D concocted under my sugar intoxication. God, I'm never drinking again.

Another person rushed into the room.

I'm fine, people—well, except for my ego.

The aroma of roses found me before she did.

The beeping sped up.

My eyes opened, and so did the sunbeams from heaven, shining through the window, turning the hospital room into a cathedral. She was here, before me.

The one that got away. Back to me. 

“How’s that for fate?” She whispered with a wink.