A Meet-Cute With Mr. Fall
Mr. Fall is strikingly handsome and almost always wearing a J. Crew flannel, Filson overcoat, and L.L.Bean duck boots. His stubble is rugged enough to look stylish and manly, but not so much so that it’d scratch your cheek if you kissed him. He’ll offer up the last apple cider donut from the farmers market without hesitation. He’s as cool as an October breeze with a smile as warm as a wool Pendleton blanket. Mr. Fall is the man responsible for all of the season’s autumnal charm, after all.
Heather always knew a meet-cute with Mr. Fall was possible. Many of her friends had often spotted him around the city. She also knew she wasn’t the only twentysomething woman in New York City who was hoping to run into him, either. Hudson Valley Magazine had recently named him as one of New York’s “best bachelors” to take on a weekender to the Catskills. But no one likes fall more than Heather.
She often jokes about “loving fall so much she’d marry it” and interjects the word “autumn” into Drake lyrics when hanging out with friends who always have to tell her they’d already seen her Instagram captions. Heather is one of those people who doesn’t stop talking about how much they love fall as soon as the inaugural cold snap of September rolls around. From that first brisk day to when the once-vibrant red and orange leaves sit rust-colored on the ground, she loves it all.
Luckily for Heather, Mr. Fall had recently moved to her neighborhood and appeared to frequent the rustic bar on her block. Her roommate Kelly saw him there two nights last week. So, it seemed it was only a matter of time before Heather would catch him there. But even if she managed to run into him — what could she say? Where would she even start? Then one late-September night after work, she recognized his broad shoulders and windswept hair from across the bar. She realized it was now or never.
“You know,” Heather said to him, tapping on the puffy down vest he was still wearing indoors. “As soon as the weather dips below 70 degrees, I drive all my friends crazy: I just can’t shut up about how much I like you.”
“Oh really?” Mr. Fall replied. He flashed the smile of someone who had heard it all before but never grew tired of the praise. Then he looked directly in her eyes: “And what exactly is so great about me?”
“Well…how much time do you have?” Heather said with a laugh, her face blushing the same shade of red as the Winesaps she loved picking from the orchards come mid-October. “I kind of love it all: putting decorative gourds on my coffee table, burning autumn-scented candles, and drinking beers with names like ‘Hoptober Ale’.”
They talked and laughed and talked some more. Heather learned Mr. Fall actually doesn’t like pumpkin spice lattes (although he gets the appeal) and he opened up about how lonely the other nine months of the year are for him, and how he’s finally looking to settle down. She told him about the hay ride she went on last weekend. He teased her for going on a hay ride before October 1st and she blushed even more. Heather just couldn’t believe he was as charming and dreamy in person as she had always imagined.
When Mr. Fall suggested that they head back to his place to listen to vinyl records and try this new pumpkin IPA he picked up, Heather was so excited she practically knocked over his drink trying to put on her Patagonia fleece. (It was only 72 degrees that day.) She realized she should have played it more coy, but this was Mr. Fall — Heather had been waiting years for this night to come.
His loft apartment was everything she had ever hoped for. There was a crunch of red and orange leaves scattered across the reclaimed hardwood floors. (Made from an old barn, he explained.) The mantle above the brick-covered fireplace was lined with decorative gourds and mason jars filled with eucalyptus. Multiple pairs of fuzzy Ugg boots and slippers were tucked away under a script-lettered sign that said something vaguely inspirational. And the crème de la crème: no roommates. (Of course Mr. Fall lived alone, she thought.)
“This is such a perfect night,” Heather told him. “I always knew that I liked you…I just didn’t think you’d ever like me back.”
“What’s not to like?” Mr. Fall said as he pulled her in for a kiss.
The next morning, Heather awoke to Mr. Fall tapping her shoulder.
“Hey, you have to leave now. I need to get ready for work.”
Heather was groggy and a little bit confused. Last night she swore he said he was freelancer who worked from home. Either way, she put on her leggings and sweater and headed out the door, still basking in the glow that she had finally hooked up with her dream beau.
She practically skipped home that morning and the excitement ran through her body like an electric current for the rest of the day. Later that afternoon, as Heather was scrolling A-frame cabin rentals on Airbnb and looking at seasonal interior decor inspiration on Pinterest, she decided to text him.
“Had a really great time last night! What are you up to this weekend? We could go to an apple orchard, maybe?”
A blue speech bubble with three dots popped up on her phone. It held there for about ten seconds and then disappeared. Heather shrugged and went on about her day.
Later that night before going to bed, Heather glanced at her phone: no texts from Mr. Fall. He probably had busy day and hasn’t checked his phone yet, she told herself. Then she opened Instagram and saw that he had watched all six of her Story Posts from her trip to Crate & Barrel earlier in the evening. (She was buying rustic metal letters to spell the phrase “Hello, Fall!” above her door frame.)
She never heard from Mr. Fall again — and summer is now her favorite season.
