Gwen sat on a bench in Lincoln Park along a lovely tree-lined pathway. It was right in the middle of the park, and people were all out and about on this summer day. The air was hot. It was a Sunday afternoon. She kept glancing about anxiously, hoping she wasn't sweating, wondering what time it was, as she'd neglected to wear a watch and refused to get out her phone to look at it. This was it: the moment of truth. She wasn't entirely sure what would transpire in the next half hour. Her life would either be enriched or ultimately more horrid.

I think it time we meet, Jonathan's last email—one in about two dozen over the past few weeks—had read yesterday evening. Every word you say wins me over. I have never met someone whose thinking was so in-tune with my own. I have always considered people and places and life in general full of much to be detested, and though you don't disagree with this, your way of wording the issues you see so prevalent seems to speak what I have wanted to say for my entire life but failed to put to words. And so I can think of nothing else I would rather do than meet you. We can meet in some very public place if it will make you feel better. I hold no expectations for anything; I only wish to become acquainted with someone whose personality and ideas I find fascinating. But you must promise me one thing, Gwen: when we meet, you must promise not to run away.

As curious as that last statement had made her feel, she'd agreed after some consideration to meet with him. Though she'd published another piece in a creative arts magazine, she'd written most of her best words to Jonathan, her admirer. The fact that he had commended her ideas and works had been grand; even more appealing, though, was what he wrote back to her, in his emails. Jonathan was full of ideas, too, and though he claimed he little knew how to word his thoughts, Gwen had found his lengthy emails philosophical and eloquent, which was more than she could say for most other writers she read in the newspapers and magazines. It did help that they shared views on numerous topics; they were both exceedingly disenchanted with the world in which they were stuck; they both felt that intelligence and rectitude were not only lacking in but also not even being sought by young people; they both feared that they'd be forced into a mundane existence at some point, forced into jobs they didn't want only to survive a life full of clichés and ignorance. Yes, it was what they talked about that most appealed to Gwen. When she saw emails from Jonathan, she opened them at once and reread each at least three times, savoring every word. His messages were like chocolates, all of which held secret promise and delectability. And so she'd agreed to meet with him, and she'd recommended this park. What did she expect from him? She little knew, but she hoped very much that he was respectful, that he was interesting, and that he was relatively attractive. The last part didn't matter so much as the others, but it would be nice to find someone who appealed not only to her mind but also to her eyes.

So here she was now, enjoying the weather and people watching and trying not to feel too nervous. What would he think of her? she wondered. Could she possibly live up to whatever expectations he had? She hoped so, but perhaps he would find her dull or pretentious and wish to discontinue communication—but Gwen refused to think of that. She didn't want to consider losing the only fan she'd ever acquired. Her own family members didn't appreciate her writing. This might have been due, Gwen admitted, to the fact that she never allowed them to read her work. But they could have picked up copies of the papers that ran her essays! Or they could have supported her choice to pursue writing. Her parents had always encouraged her to find some more lucrative career, but they didn't understand—she was going to make money off her writing, once she got her name out and about a little more, and as much as she hated working menial jobs, she could keep on at that high school until she was able to just write. Her brothers were another story. They were all older and off in their own lives. Derek, the only one younger than her, was steadily whittling away at self-destruction, but he had seemed all right when Gwen at long last made an effort to see him. Their mother had been calling more frequently, pleading with Gwen to check up on Derek, because he wouldn't call their parents. Mrs. Newsham had convinced her daughter to pay a visit to Derek, which she'd done with reservation. Her jerk little brother had totally blown her off, not even listening to her suggestions that they take a trip to visit their parents. Gwen hadn't seen them in about as long as Derek, and a trip home might be nice, after all. But he had pretty much shoved her out the door. At least she could tell her mother that she'd tried and that although Derek was rude, he was alive and well.

Where was Jonathan? Gwen didn't know what else to think about and was growing bored. It was a bit troubling that she didn't know what to look for. He, apparently, had seen her picture. At least, this was what he'd told her after she'd suggested a meeting place. How that had happened, Gwen didn't know, and she hadn't asked. People could find anything on the internet, and perhaps her old university or one of the papers to which she'd published had put her photo somewhere. That wasn't unlikely. In any case, he could be nearby right that moment, and she wouldn't even know.

Suddenly, Gwen caught sight of someone she certainly did not want to see. How on earth it was possible to run into him again in a city this big was phenomenally obscure—nearly unbelievable! And yet there he was, walking down the pathway, coming right toward her! After their last encounter, she'd made an idiot of herself by running off—not that she felt bad for leaving him the way she did. He was a little dangerous, and she'd been smart to get away. She'd counted on never seeing him again.

What should she do? Where could she go? Gwen didn't even have some magazine or newspaper to cover her face with—she had nothing to hide behind, and getting up would only draw more attention to her. She was totally stuck! She'd turn her head aside, at least, not look in his direction. Crossing her legs, she sat at an angle on the bench, looking down the path and away from the direction of his approach. There were tons of people moving along the path; there were a few men sitting across the pathway on the bench opposite, reading; little kids rolled around in the grass and joggers hurried by, mixed in with the tourists and people just milling about—it was quite possible that he would be off in his own world and pass right by her, not even see her sitting there. Please, please, please . . .! she begged some unknown entity.

No luck.

"Hey," greeted a voice from above, and she knew at once that it was him, and that he was standing over her.

Gwen turned her head slowly, lifted her gaze to meet his, which was pretty serene-looking for chance-encountering her again, all dappled in shade from the leaves waving overhead. "Hello," she grudgingly replied.

"Can I sit down?" he asked.

Why was he so odd? He was as calm as if he'd expected to see her here. "No," she told him. "I'm waiting for a friend. He should be here any minute, and I—I'm saving this seat for him." She planted her hand on the empty space next to her.

Will shrugged his shoulders. Gwen frowned. "That's all right," he said. "I'll leave when he gets here." He sat down, forcing her to snatch her hand back.

Gwen scooted an inch or two away from him. He was too close to her; he made her uncomfortable, the way he was staring at her. She didn't return his look and instead continued to watch the people around her. At least he couldn't do anything too creepy with all of them around, and when Jonathan did show up, she was sure Will would have no excuse to stick around. What terrible luck she had!

"Are you not happy to see me?"

She didn't say anything to him. Wouldn't even move to indicate she'd heard him.

"Please," he added, and the sincerity of his tone infuriated her, "don't be alarmed that I'm here. I'm not following you, Gwen."

"Oh, you're not?" she snapped, unafraid to face him now. "You are so weird! Why can't you just leave me alone? If you aren't following me—if you just happened to be here at the same time as me, which is highly unlikely considering the magnitude of this city and its population—couldn't you at least have kept walking? I don't want to say hello to you. I don't want you to sit and talk to me. I don't even want to see your face again. We aren't friends. We may be acquaintances, but that certainly wasn't through any purposeful intention of mine. You should be able to tell by now that I don't want anything to do with you, so try to locate a shred of decency within yourself and leave me—" In the midst of her tirade, some nerve drummed in her brain, and she froze. Her volume, which had attracted curious glances from a few passersby, dropped about two levels. "What did you just call me?"

Will stared at her. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't frowning. He was entirely stoic, and she didn't know what to make of it except that he did, actually, know who she was, now.

Fearful, Gwen stood up from the bench, but he grabbed her wrist. "You promised you wouldn't run when we met." She paused. "I'm Jonathan, Gwen. It's my middle name. William Jonathan, is my full name."

Gwen didn't know whether to be furious or frightened, but her astonishment overwhelmed both potential emotions. Forgetting that he still had her wrist wrapped in his fingers, she left it where it was. "Is this a joke? Are you seriously telling me that you're the one who's been writing to me?"

"I didn't know it was you, either! I just learned your real name a couple of weeks ago! I swear to you that I had no idea you were the same person!" He let go of her and, for the first time since arriving, gave way to some expression: nervousness. "Please, just sit and talk with me for a few minutes. Then, I promise, if you still want me to leave you alone, I will. And I'll mean it for good, this time. You've got nothing to lose, right?"

Skeptically, Gwen pondered his offer but decided that he was worth hearing out. Plus, the people on the bench across the path were staring at her, and she felt embarrassed. So, calmly sitting back down, she smoothed out her skirt and nodded for him to continue his explanation.

Will sighed in what she conjectured was relief. "I live with your brother."

"Which one?"

"Derek. And a friend of his. They're my roommates. A long while ago, I found a newspaper he'd saved, open to one of your articles. I read it and really felt it. He told me you were his sister, but I didn't know more than your name. I . . . we're not exactly friends, so I didn't want to ask for pictures or anything. But I found another article of yours, and it had your email, so I began to write you. When I saw you in the bookstore, and at the grocery store and the bar—those were entirely disconnected meetings. I had absolutely no clue that you were Gwendolyn Newsham, whose writing I admired. I thought you were Sara, some woman I ran into and wanted to . . . to know, better." He hesitated. "Actually, it was my intention to . . . sort of . . . scare you, a little. I know that's really strange sounding, but I just . . . had this feeling about you. I wanted to kind of mess with your mind . . ." He shook his head, at a loss for words. He was struggling with his confession. "I thought you were some stuck-up, naïve person that I could mess with. I know, that sounds kind of sick, and it probably is. I didn't care, though. The only thing I really liked was reading emails and thoughts from Gwen Newsham. That was totally separate from who I thought Sara was. So when you came to the apartment to see your brother and I saw that you were the same person—I . . . I felt absolutely stupid. I couldn't believe that I thought you were some ignorant woman when you were really the only . . . the only person I've ever, in my entire life, felt got me."

Gwen just continued to stare at him.

"So . . . I thought if I could just start over with you . . . if I could just know you as Gwen, not Sara. If we . . . I . . ."

He was suffering a little, Gwen could tell. He didn't know what she thought of him, and if she was honest, she didn't know, herself. "Whoever you are—Will, Jonathan, whatever—I'm not exactly interested in making friends right now."

"Not even with the me that sent the emails?"

"No."

Will frowned, thought, resigned himself to her reply. "You would have been, if I had never met you before. But I understand. I screwed it all up. The first person—and I ruined my chances without even knowing it."

He gave her a searching look, but she kept her face as prim as ever.

"All right. I promised I wouldn't bother you anymore, then."

"I'm not interested in making friends," Gwen repeated, "but I'll give you one more chance—one more! That's it."

The color of Will's cheeks flushed to match his orange hair. "Really?"

"I guess so. After all, you're my only fan, so far. I can't afford to lose you, yet."

"Yet? Does that mean when you build up a bigger fan base I'll get kicked out?"

"That depends on whether or not you can keep me interested."

"I'll do my best." Will grinned and got to his feet. "What do you say we walk?"

Gwen stood up as well. "Sounds good to me. So tell me about you, for real."

"Well," he began, as they started down the tree-lined path, "I've been working a pretty dull job."

"Sounds familiar."

"I know. But I've applied to start school up again in the fall."

The people on the bench opposite the one from which they'd risen could hear the pair's pleasant conversation for a few minutes before the two's voices faded and were replaced with those of other human beings.