RICKMAS 2024

The bistro was warm, alive with overlapping murmurs of conversation and the clink of silverware, a stark contrast to the icy streets outside. Sinclair burst through the door, trailing snow and energy as he unwound his scarf with dramatic flair. Food was always a good idea. Lunch away from the office was cause for celebration. 

“John!” he exclaimed, spotting his friend across the room, staring at his phone. “There you are! Whatcha reading? Anything interesting?”

John raised an eyebrow, flicking his attention to one of his oldest friends. “If by interesting, you mean ensuring everything’s prepared for the new transfers, yes.”

“Transfers?” Sinclair dropped into the seat across from him, a grin already spreading. John had taken an assignment at RAF Lakenheath, making their lunches fewer and father between, but Sinclair was happy for his friend. It was, after all, a promotion. “How interesting!”

“Not really, Sinclair,” John chuckled, tucking his phone away. “Happens every year. But we’re welcoming an uptick in Americans. We’ve had to get creative with our space.”

“Don’t tell me they’re starting a war,” Sinclair chuckled, patting his pockets to assure he hadn’t forgotten his wallet. Again.

“Nope, just staging their assets,” John replied. “F-35’s and their crews.”

“Interesting,” Sinclair mused. “I read a fascinating article saying the American F-35’s are fully mission capable only 55% of the time. Whereas the UK’s variant allows for shorter takeoff and more vertical maneuvering.”

John endured Sinclair’s babbling, not surprised in the least Sinclair had an opinion on a rather obscure bit of information. Sinclair had been a saving grace on more than one pub trivia night.

“How are you, Sinclair? I assume you abandoned your email inbox to come entertain me?”

“Abandoned? No, no, I’m just… letting it breathe.” Sinclair leaned back, gesturing grandly. “Emails need space, you see. Freedom to roam, to discover themselves.”

“You’re ridiculous,” John said, shaking his head.

“Ah, but you love me for it.” Sinclair picked up the menu, scanning it with the air of someone appraising fine art. “Now, what culinary wonders await us today? Something hearty, I hope—I’ve had a day.”

“You’ve only been at work for four hours,” John pointed out.

“And what a grueling four hours they were!” Sinclair leaned in conspiratorially. “Did I tell you? Barry tried to fix the office printer this morning. Absolute carnage. I’m fairly certain it’s now considered sentient.”

The food arrived soon after, and Sinclair launched into a spirited tale about the aforementioned printer incident, complete with voices and exaggerated hand gestures. He had John laughing so hard he nearly choked on his coffee.

But as the conversation slowed, John’s tone shifted. “Alright, enough about your office antics,” he said. “How’ve you been? Really.”

“Me?” Sinclair blinked, as though the question caught him off guard. “Marvelous! Living the dream, as always.”

“Come on, Sinclair,” John pressed. “You’ve been… I don’t know, lonely lately?”

Sinclair hesitated, swirling his soup with his spoon. “Lonely? Nonsense. I’m perfectly content. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got—well, I’ve got my job, my friends, and a fantastic wardrobe.” He grinned, tugging at his scarf.

John wasn’t buying it. “When’s the last time you thought about dating?”

Sinclair froze mid-spoonful. “Dating?” he echoed, as though John had just suggested he take up underwater basket weaving. “Why? I’m just peachy the way things are now.”

“Sinclair,” John said, exasperated. “You can’t keep hiding behind jokes. You deserve to move on. Natalie’s—” He paused, searching for the right words. “Look, people grow apart. It happens. But you’re still you, and someone out there will appreciate that.”

Sinclair waved a hand, his grin faltering slightly. “You’re too kind. Truly. But let’s not pretend I’m some tragic hero here.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” John said firmly. “I’m just saying you should try. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Sinclair didn’t answer right away, staring at the snow drifting past the window. The truth pressed at the edges of his mind, but he shoved it aside, letting John’s version of events stand. Despite how it ended, Sinclair couldn’t bring himself to speak ill of Natalie. They had a clean split, no need to air their incredibly dirty laundry. Occasionally, he still felt a degree of responsibility for the implosion of their marriage.

By the time they left the bistro, Sinclair was back to his usual buoyant self, cracking jokes and making John shake his head in fond exasperation. But as the cold wind bit at his cheeks, he couldn’t stop John’s words from replaying in his head.

Sinclair trudged back to his office, idly watching people go about their lives. Joyful shouts of school children sounded at playground to his right, enjoying their well-deserved playtime. A football sailed over the fence in front of him.

“Mister, mister, can you get that?” A boy begged, his fingers clutching the chainlink fence. Chuckling, Sinclair flicked it over the fence and went on his way. Approaching 40 years old, he’d made peace with the fact children weren’t in the cards. Initially, it’d been a bitter pill to swallow, perhaps one of the more devastating consequences of their divorce. But to his friends’ children, he was Uncle Sinclair and that was enough.

Returning to his office, Sinclair answered emails and fielded phone calls from various clients. To those who didn’t know him, Sinclair Bryant was often seen as a pompous and condescending stock analyst. However, those who got to know him realized he was simply a goofy guy with varied interest. Which made him good at his job.

“I’m heading out, sir.” His secretary popped her head in. “Need anything else?” 

“No, Amy,” Sinclair smiled, drumming a pen on the desk. “Got any plans?”

“Just Tinder date,” Amy replied. 

“What happened to Mark?” Sinclair asked, his curiosity taking over. “And what’s Tinder?”

“Mark was a bust.” Amy rolled her eyes, retrieving her phone. “And this is Tinder.”

Sinclair watched her swipe through photographs of men, each with a little blurb about them, like a dinner menu. 

“So express window shopping for dates?” He ventured. Analytically, it seemed an interesting idea. Obviously, the app used and algorithm to tailor prospects based on preference, but Sinclair couldn’t help but think the concept was…cheap. They’d finally done it, removed the human component of dating.

“Pretty much, sir, I’ve had five date in the span of a month.” Sinclair arched an eyebrow. Amy noticed, snorting a laugh. “I’m enjoying my options currently.”

“I miss the days of meeting people in a bar,” Sinclair chuckled, throwing his hands behind his head. “Is that still a thing?”

“You could always make a profile,” Amy suggested, shouldering her bag. “It may surprise you.” 

“I think I’ll pass. Enjoy your date, Amy.”

In the solitude of his office, Sinclair reflected on the fact two of his acquaintances broached the topic of his nonexistent love life. So down the rabbit hole, he went.

Sinclair leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers as he stared at his computer screen. The tabs open on his browser bore incriminating titles: “Best Dating Apps for Over 30s”, “How to Get Back into Dating After Divorce”, and the particularly damning “Signs You’re Ready to Date Again”.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temples. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. “I’m a fully grown man, not a teenager.”

Still, he clicked the next link.

The article loaded with a condescending positivity: “Step One: Reflect on What You Want.”

Sinclair snorted. He knew what he wanted—or rather, what he didn’t want. He didn’t want awkward first dates or forced small talk. Nor did he want to scroll through endless profiles or dissect the nuances of a “like” versus a “super like.”

What he wanted was simple: connection. But the kind that came naturally, like the way his conversations with Natalie had started, back when they were both too young to imagine how it would all unravel.

He closed the tab with a decisive click.

The clock on his desk ticked past seven. He glanced out the window, where twilight was settling over the city, the snow glowing faintly under the streetlights.

Sinclair stood, grabbing his coat and scarf. Maybe what he needed wasn’t to dive headfirst into the world of modern dating but to clear his head. And he knew just the place.

The little bookstore on Prince’s Street was one of Sinclair’s sanctuaries. It smelled of old paper and fresh coffee, the kind of place where time seemed to slow down. He greeted the owner, a sprightly older woman named Eleanor, before wandering to the back, where the travel section met philosophy.

Captain Olivia Grayson zipped her coat tighter as a sharp winter wind swirled down the cobbled street. The city bustled around her, tourists huddling over maps, locals moving briskly with purpose. For Olivia, London was both overwhelming and exhilarating, a far cry from the vast open skies she usually called home.

She had time to kill before her new posting at RAF Lakenheath officially began, and after a whirlwind of paperwork and settling into temporary quarters, she finally had a day to herself. London seemed like the perfect distraction. Especially with David blowing up her phone, the fucker. 

The moment the ink dried on their divorce settlement, she’d received orders to the UK and he shipped to North Dakota, somewhere he couldn’t cause near as many problems. Another injustice in his mind, though his DUI certainly didn’t help matters. As officers they were supposed to set the standard. Her phone vibrated in pocket. Growling, she didn’t bother checking the caller ID.

“Hello.”

“You ruined my life,” David slurred, already well into his third, maybe fifth, drink of the day. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be a pilot. You stole my dream!”

Olivia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’d known he was trouble the moment he swaggered into her maintenance shop. At the time she’d been enlisted, a lowly airframe mechanic. Being the object of an officer’s attention was frowned upon, falling in love with him was a major no-no. But love makes people doing stupid things, so she’d applied to be an officer and graduated top of her class. Then they’d gotten married and the mask slipped.

“I worked hard to get where I am,” Olivia snarled. “Maybe you should’ve done the same.”

“You gave up on me when I needed you most!”

“No, you blamed me for every little issue going on in your life. Then didn’t get help when I asked you to, culminating in your on-base DUI,” Olivia corrected, refusing to play her ex-husband’ game. “You’re lucky you kept your commission.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I miss you, Liv,” David whispered, his tone drunkenly mournful. “We were good together.”

Her jaw tightened. They’d done this song and dance time and time again. Still, it didn’t alleviate the sting of failure. 

“Goodbye David.”

Stuffing her phone away, Olivia resisted the urge to scream. Had anybody told her when she signed her name on the dotted line that ten years in she’d be a divorced officer, a pilot no less, in a highly sought after billet she would’ve laughed. Her entire family were enlisted folk and proud of it. Yes, David had changed her life for the better, making her believe she was capable of more. If it hadn’t been for his help, she wouldn’t have submitted her officer packet in the first place. But he’d also been the cause of too much heartache.

The running joke was always keep an eye on the lower enlisted marrying strippers to escape their circumstance since it never ended well. Joke was on her, she bettered herself for an ill-fated relationship.

As she wandered, her anger slowly ebbed. The city, with its winding streets and unexpected charm, began to work its magic. A small shop caught her eye: Eleanor’s Books. Its narrow façade was wedged between a café and a flower shop, promising warmth and quiet.

Inside, the scent of old paper mingled with fresh coffee, and the cozy space invited her to linger. Olivia shrugged off her coat and gloves, letting the soothing hum of the store replace the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just something to lose herself in.

She browsed, eventually finding herself in the travel section. Titles promising adventures in far-off places lined the shelves, and one in particular stood out: The Most Breathtaking Journeys in the World. It was perched on the top shelf, just out of reach.

She frowned, stretching onto her toes. At 5’8”, she wasn’t short, but the shelf might as well have been Everest. Her fingers brushed the edge of the book, but it wouldn’t budge. “Come on, you stubborn bitch,” she muttered, trying again.

“Having a bit of trouble, are we?” a voice drawled from behind her.

Olivia spun around, startled. A man stood there, tall and sharply dressed, with a goofy grin that suggested he’d been watching longer than he should have.

“I’ve got it,” she said, her tone edged with defensiveness.

“Clearly,” he replied, his grin widening. “But a helping hand is never a bad thing.”

“That’s true,” Olivia relented, stepping aside with a shrug. “Then I guess I should give you a try.”

With an air of exaggerated ease, he reached up and plucked the book from the shelf. He handed it to her with a small flourish. “There you go. No mountaineering equipment required.”

Olivia took the book, glancing at the cover before looking back at him. “Impressive,” she said. “And here I thought chivalry was dead.”

“Oh, it is,” he chuckled lightly. “I’m just clinging stubbornly to the past.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Closing the book, she tucked it under her arm. “Thanks for the assist, Mr. Redwood. Do you make a habit of rescuing women from perilous bookshelves?”

“Only the exceptionally brave ones,” he replied, slipping his hands into his coat pockets, boyish wonder shining in his eyes. “Have you seen a redwood in person? I hear they’ve adapted to absorb water from fog.”

“Yeah,” Olivia chuckled, weirdly amused by the random bar trivia fact. “In fact I’ve also driven through one.”

The man cocked his head in an oddly adorable puppy-like way. “How?”

“They just continued the road and tunneled through the tree.”

“Fascinating,” he muttered, shaking his head in amazement. “One day, I want to see them.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool,” Olivia agreed, the memory of her trip there with David playing in her mind. She stuffed the thought down. “Definitely worth seeing once.”

Perhaps seeing her discomfort, her book retriever took a noticeable stop back. “Well,” he smiled. “I hope you enjoy your book.”

“Thanks for saving the day,” Olivia called after him. 

He stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Anytime. Perhaps I’ll see you around.”

Olivia watched him slip out the door, his farewell to the shopkeeper—a pleasant older woman named Eleanor—punctuated by a cheerful wave. The bell above the door chimed as it shut behind him. A small smile tugged at Olivia’s lips.

The guy was cute. Lanky, maybe a bit awkward, but undeniably charming in a way that felt refreshing. Not slick or practiced, just… genuine. Someone David would have mocked for being a dork, she thought with a faint smirk.

She approached the counter to pay for her book, setting it down as Elena looked up with a warm smile.

“Find what you were looking for, dear?” Eleanor asked, her accent lilting with a touch of the north.

“More or less,” Olivia replied, sliding her card across the counter. “Though I can’t take full credit for it. That guy who just left gave me a hand.”

Eleanor smile grew, her eyes twinkling knowingly. “Ah, Sinclair. He’s a regular here.”

“Sinclair,” Olivia repeated, testing the name out loud. It suited him, she thought—slightly old-fashioned, a little unusual, but memorable.

Eleanor swiped the card, glancing toward the door as if expecting him to pop back in. “He’s quite the character. Always poking around the history section or buying books on art. He’ll talk anybody’s ear off who’ll listen.”

“I believe it.” Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Chatty fella, ain’t he?”

“Oh, he’s not mysterious in the slightest,” Eleanor said with a chuckle, handing back Olivia’s card. “He’s chatty in a cheerful sort of way. Talks plenty about books. He’s got a real knack for finding the hidden gems.”

Olivia nodded absently, her fingers brushing the edge of the book she’d just purchased. “Does he come in often?”

“Every week or so. Though he’s always in a rush, poor thing. I suspect his schedule doesn’t leave much time for browsing.”

Olivia hesitated for a moment before slipping the book into her bag. “Well, he was helpful. And funny. You don’t meet too many people like that.”

Eleanor smile turned knowing. “No, you don’t.”

With a polite nod, Olivia slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped outside. The cold air hit her cheeks, but the warmth of her brief exchange lingered.

As she wandered back into the bustle of the city, Olivia found her thoughts drifting back to Sinclair. Awkward and lanky, but charming. The kind of man David would have dismissed without a second thought—and the kind she might not have noticed a year ago.

Shaking off the thought, she reflected on the road ahead. She’d come to London for a fresh start, a stepping stone, not to get tangled up with another man. But as her fingers brushed the spine of the book through her bag, she hoped there was a chance for happiness in her future.