You Were Meant For Me by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page B

wasn’t going that fast,” Evan said. “I knew he’d stop.”
    â€œHow could you know that?” she said.
“How?”
She hugged him fiercely before sprinting back to the waiting ambulance.
    A small crowd had gathered. People were recounting what had happened to those who had not seen it. A couple of them pointed to Evan. “You were great, man,” someone said.
    â€œYeah. You saved her.”
    â€œI think she’ll be fine,” Evan said. Miranda, who had by this time walked over to him, noticed how he deflected theattention from himself. “How about you?” he asked her. “You seem pretty shaken.”
    â€œI am,” she said. “But you’re not.”
    â€œI’m just glad it turned out the way it did.” He bent over to pick up the flowers, which Miranda had somehow let drop. “We’ll talk soon, then?”
    â€œSoon,” she echoed, and cradling the miraculously intact daffodils, turned and headed back to her apartment. Whatever errands she had planned could wait; right now, she had an urgent need to get home. Meeting Evan had confused her. He was brave, modest, and heroic in a crisis. And before that, he’d been a lively and an interesting enough coffee date. He was
gallant
; that’s what he was. But none of this added up to the mysterious alchemy of desire. He’d be a great friend, Miranda decided. Someone to talk to, to rely on. Maybe that’s the way this could play out.
    Once back at her brownstone, she saw that the mail was neatly gathered and left on the table in the front hall; Mrs. Castiglione did this without fail every day. Miranda sifted through the small pile: bill, Victoria’s Secret catalog, and a credit card offer. There, at the very bottom, was what she had been alternately waiting for and dreading: the letter from the Administration for Children’s Services.
    All thoughts of Evan and his rightness/not rightness were immediately driven out by the faint roaring in her ears. Was she hearing the rush of her own blood? For the second time, the daffodils slipped from her grasp. They fell to the floor, and the rubber band holding them together snapped, strewing a cascade of bright yellow flowers all over the carpet. But Miranda barely registered their presence; she was focused entirely on the letter, whose envelope she tore in her haste to open it.
We are very pleased
to tell you that you have been approved.
 . . . Shedidn’t read any more. She didn’t need to. The sound in her ears had turned to a jubilant cheer. The baby—
her
baby—was coming home.
    Still, when Evan called two days later, Miranda agreed to go out with him again. They met at the Brooklyn Academy of Music; there was a Charlie Chaplin festival in progress and they were going to see
City Lights
. Miranda was glad he’d suggested it. Charlie Chaplin was a favorite of hers, and apparently of his too. They sat very quietly in the theater, not touching or looking at each other—a good sign in Miranda’s view. She could not abide people who talked or made any noise during a film—she was happy to spend an hour dissecting it later, but while she was watching, she wanted to lose herself completely.
    Afterward, Evan insisted on escorting her home, and they walked along Brooklyn’s Fifth Avenue, which had become an interesting mix of shops, bars, and restaurants in recent years. When they reached a café called the Chocolate Room, he turned to her. “Want to stop?”
    â€œFor chocolate? Always.”
    Sitting at the round, marble-topped table over chocolate fondue, she told him about the baby who would soon be coming to live with her. He seemed really excited for her. Nice. A lot of men would have gone running for the hills at this point. Not Evan. “I want to meet her,” he said.
    â€œI’d like that,” said Miranda. But because she didn’t want to monopolize the