Shakeyla's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Shakeyla ran the best weddings in Chicago from a red vinyl booth at midnight. Her binder lay open under the chrome light, tabs color-coded, timeline down to the minute. She planned other people's love while her own stayed blank. At 11:40, she needed to finish the seating chart for a Grand Manor ceremony. She did not need the stranger sliding into the seat across from her again. He dropped a bright cluster of prairie wildflowers on her paperwork. Loose petals scattered over the bride's guest list. "You looked like a daisy person," he said. He had a loosened tie and a press badge she couldn't read. "You've crashed this booth three nights running," Shakeyla said. She moved the flowers off her binder. "I don't know your name. I don't know why you're here. At midnight this table is mine." He grinned and stole a fry from her plate. "Fair. I'm Eliot. Sports reporter. I come here to hide from a story I don't want to write." He nodded at her binder. "You always plan strangers' happy endings this late?" "It's quiet. No one interrupts." She tapped her pen against the guest list. "Except you." She checked the clock. 11:52. She had a rule. Booth cleared by midnight, no exceptions. She'd said it to florists, caterers, one weepy groom. She opened her mouth to say it to Eliot. Then she saw what he was writing. On a diner napkin, upside down, he'd sketched her timeline in his own shorthand. Ceremony, toast, first dance. He'd added a note in the margin: "leave one thing unscheduled." "That's not how weddings work," Shakeyla said. "That's not how anything works, the way you do it." He pushed the napkin across the chrome. "You've got every minute booked but this one. Right now. Nobody assigned it." The clock hit 11:58. She should point at the door. Instead she looked at the wildflowers on her guest list, the stems still wet. Nobody had brought her flowers in a long time. She noticed she'd stopped writing. Midnight came. Shakeyla did not tell him to leave. "You get one hour," she said. She capped her pen. "You tell me about the story you're hiding from. I finish this chart. If you're boring, you're gone." Eliot leaned back into the red vinyl. "Deal." He stole another fry. "But you don't touch that binder while I talk." She hesitated. Then she closed the binder. The tabs folded shut with a soft snap. Her hand stayed flat on the cover, like she couldn't quite let go. "One hour," she repeated. It sounded less like a rule now. More like a start. Across the table, Eliot started talking. Shakeyla forgot to check the clock.