#idealists

He didn’t pay attention to the weather. He rarely did. Weather was for people who planned picnics or took walks without purpose. Weather was for people with time. With softness. With someone waiting for them at home to say, “You’ll need a coat.” Harry didn’t have that. He had a driver who knew his calendar, made by a private assistant who knew his whole being better than he did, and a closet of coats that still somehow made him feel cold.

But tonight, for some reason he couldn’t name, he left the gala on foot.

It was stupid, maybe. The car had been idling by the curb. The doorman had opened the door like muscle memory. But Harry kept walking. Past the pillars, down the steps, away from the light and chatter and clink of glasses. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked as if he had somewhere to be. He didn’t.

Maybe the reason for poor judgement was the wine. He felt drunk, which made him lonelier, which could be cured by walking. Or at least, that’s what the article he read this morning said to him. The New York Times had a way of convincing him he needs more out of life. Maybe he should consider that matchmaker nonsense too. His brother certainly did.

By the time he reached the end of the block, it started raining.

Not politely. Not a drizzle. The kind of rain that meant it. So hard it pricked his skin. The kind that soaked you fast, punished your shoulders, ran into your eyes, asked if you still wanted to be here. He kept walking.

It was almost laughable—him, in a suit worth more than some people’s rent, wandering the city like he’d lost something. Maybe he had. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, his life had become one long executive summary. PowerPoints. Projections. Value. Worth. He liked it, but he needed more in his life. Such is the way of a rich person. They always want more.

It was after a minute of walking that he regretted his decision. It was very cold, and he hated wet clothes.

He stopped under a dim streetlamp, pulling his collar up, trying to keep the worst of it off his neck. His mind spun with things he’d rather not think about—board meetings, fractured deals, the ache of feeling empty despite everything.

Then, out of nowhere, she ran past him—a flash of movement against the gray wash of rain. Her coat flared behind her, damp hair plastered to her face, and strapped across her back was a cello case, seeming impossibly delicate for this storm.

She didn’t hesitate. No words, no pause. Just a quick glance, sharp and bright, before she reached for his wrist and tugged.

He barely had time to blink before she was pulling him forward—splashing through puddles, weaving through empty sidewalks. His suit soaked through, his expensive shoes squelching, but he followed without question. There was something in the way she moved, urgent but light, like she belonged to the rain, not the other way around.

They ran until the city noise faded behind them and they slipped into the shadow of a weathered bookstore, its awning stretched wide like an old friend offering refuge.

They stood side by side, catching their breath in the sudden stillness. Thunder rolled distantly, rain pounding the streets beyond their shelter.

She turned to him then, and for the first time, her eyes met his fully—unflinching, alive.

Her lashes held tiny droplets. Her smile was soft.

“Expensive things shouldn’t be wet,” she said quietly. “Like this.” She reached back to the cello case, fingers tracing the leather strap. “Or your suit.”

He laughed, surprised by the sound—short and dry but real. She watched him, clearly pleased by the reaction.

“You looked like you were having a moment out there,” she said, voice calm but curious. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He shook his head, still smiling a little. “You interrupted it anyway.”

“True,” she said, completely unbothered. “But now you’re marginally less soaked. You’re welcome.”

He glanced down at himself, dark fabric clinging to him like second skin. “Did you really drag me in here just because of the suit?”

“Partially.”

“It’s already ruined.”

“I figured. But I thought I’d spare it the final blow. There’s something tragic about wet suits.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Tragic?”

She nodded, peeling damp curls off her cheek. “Custom tailored suits aren’t supposed to be caught in storms. Like cellos. Or tailored men.”

He huffed out a small laugh. “Right.”

“Plus,” she added, with a shrug, “I have a soft spot for sad-looking old men standing in the rain like they’re in a French film.”

He looked at her, then out the window, where the storm still blurred the city in streaks of silver. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

A beat passed.

“We’re the same, you know,” she said, voice softer now. “Alone in the rain. It's a bit pathetic, really.”

“Depressing’s generous,” Harry said, leaning back. “I’m more of a walking tax bracket.”

That made her laugh. “Let me guess. Finance?”

“Private equity,” he admitted, bracing for the usual judgment.

But she just nodded like it confirmed something. “Nice.”

He smiled—just slightly.

“You from New York City, kid?” Harry asked, glancing between them. “I just figured since you have the cello. Artists don’t really thrive here, not like the city anyway—”

“Yeah, I’m from the city. Well, I moved there a while ago, at least,” Catherine said. “Just past Morningside Park.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. He hesitated, then added, “Tribeca.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin playing at her mouth. “That fits you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“So,” she asked, folding her arms loosely, “you live there with your family?”

“Uh, no. Never married. No kids.” He said it all dryly, like a checklist he was tired of hearing about himself.

She didn’t respond with pity or interest. Just nodded, like that too made sense. Then she gave a thoughtful little hum. “That explains the suit. And the watch. And the slightly tragic look in your eyes.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.”

She smiled at him, something softer now. “You’re not. But that’s fine. A lot more in life than just that.”

“What are you doing in Cold Spring?”

She was about to speak again when a noise behind them made both their heads turn—a soft creak of hinges and the clatter of something metallic hitting wood.

An old man stood at the doorway just behind them, peering out from the shadows of the dimly lit store. He looked like he belonged to the shelves themselves—stooped, with a long cardigan that nearly brushed his knees and spectacles that magnified kind eyes.

He glanced between the two of them, then to the puddle they were unintentionally forming on his porch. His face twitched—something between surprise and amusement—and he said, in a thick, lilting accent Harry couldn’t quite place, “Well, you two planning to swim out here all night, or shall I put on the kettle?”

She blinked, then grinned. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to—”

“Ah, nonsense,” the man waved her off, already turning back into the store with the slow assurance of someone who’d been around a very long time. “Come on in before you catch a fever. Storm like this isn’t one you wait out on porches.”

Harry and the girl exchanged a look. The kind that asked, do we? The kind that didn’t really need an answer.

They stepped inside. It smelled of paper and dust and something herbal—maybe dried mint, maybe age itself. The lights were dim, yellowish and uneven, casting the place in the kind of glow that made you whisper without meaning to.

Books filled every crevice—stacked on tables, leaning against chairs, crammed into crooked shelves. There was a coat rack by the door with only one item on it: a faded scarf that might’ve once been red.

“Take your time,” the man called from somewhere in the back. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t touch the Emersons, they’re organized by resentment.”

The girl gave Harry a side glance. “Organized by what?”

Harry smiled and shrugged.

She wandered a few steps ahead of Harry, her eyes skimming the shelves as if trying to read every spine at once. She turned toward the voice calling from deeper inside the shop.

“Your accent,” she called lightly, voice echoing off books and beams, “Liverpool?”

There was a pause—then the sound of something clattering, like a teacup being set down too hard in surprise.

“Scouse, aye,” came the reply, tinged with a kind of pleased defensiveness. “Sharp ear on you.”

“I had a roommate from Wavertree,” she said, smiling toward the dark hallway at the back. “She used to curse me out with words I didn’t know existed.”

A bark of laughter echoed back.

“You poor thing,” he said. “She teach you how to survive, at least?”

“She taught me how to argue over washing up. That’s close enough.”

Harry watched as something seemed to shift in the air. The old man emerged again, this time with a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a plate of buttered toast in one hand. His guard was down now, cracked open like a familiar book.

“Well,” he said, offering the plate with a nod, “if you had to survive Scousers, might as well come warm up with one. I’ve got soup on and too much of it.”

She took the toast with a soft laugh. “Thank you. We really didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t,” he waved a hand again. “I saw you two on the porch. Looked like one of those old records, y’know? Lonely man in a suit, beautiful girl in a worse mood than the weather. But no, you looked pretty happy to me,” He chuckled, then looked at Harry. “You looked a bit... ruined.”

Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t quite ready to yet.

“Come on then,” the man said, already turning. “Place is falling apart, but the kettle still works. You can sit by the heater.”

They followed him into the narrow back kitchen—old, mismatched tile underfoot, stacks of books even here lining the corners, as if the shelves had spilled and nobody bothered to stop them. There was a small table set for one. The man reached for two more mismatched bowls from a cupboard above the sink.

“Name’s Jim,” he said.

“Catherine,” she answered easily.

The girl nudged his side.

“Harry,” he finally said.

The soup was hot and surprisingly good—potato, leek, maybe something else neither of them could place. They sat around the small table, bowls in hand, steam rising between them like soft fog.

Catherine did most of the talking. Jim had taken a clear liking to her, leaning in over his mug of tea, asking questions like an old friend, utterly delighted by her presence. Harry watched it unfold quietly, spoon paused in midair as he listened.

“So what’s a girl like you doing out in this god awful weather with a big violin?” Jim asked, eyes twinkling with suspicion and curiosity.

“Cello,” Catherine corrected with a grin. “Came from a gathering. Friends, sort of. Mostly strangers. I was trying something new.” She stirred her soup absentmindedly, then glanced toward the cello resting safely by the wall. “I’ve been thinking about putting together a small studio. Back in the city. A place for artists, musicians— Anyway, they seemed interested. And I came with my cello to prove that I am one of them.”

Jim sat back, visibly impressed. “A bold girl with a plan. Now that’s rare.” He looked around the room, as if picturing the ghosts of old songs and stories.

Jim pointed at Harry with his spoon, finally acknowledging him. “And your fella didn’t bring a car? Och. What kind of knight are you, eh? An American, in America, without a car.”

Harry wanted to say he not only had a car, but a driver too. He didn’t though. He sensed that he had to explain why he was in the rain in the first place if he brought that up.

Catherine almost choked on her soup, laughing. “Oh—he’s not my fella. We just met, actually.”

Jim blinked, then nodded slowly, like something had clicked into place. “Ah, now that makes more sense. You’re just too young and lovely. Couldn’t imagine you settled yet. Not with that old man.”

Harry gave him a look. He didn’t like this Jim person very much, to be honest.

Catherine tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, what? And what’s wrong with an older man?”

Jim raised a brow, bemused.

She gestured across the table. “Harry is a handsome man. Not as handsome as you, obviously, Jim, but close enough.”

That made Harry laugh—actually laugh, sudden and genuine. He shook his head and looked down, hiding the grin tugging at his mouth. For the first time that night, the chill of the storm seemed far away.

Time passed unnoticed, like warmth slowly spreading through chilled limbs. The bowls were scraped clean, mugs refilled, and the room thick with the soft hum of conversation and scotch. Harry, who was so often surrounded by people that talked too much and said too little—gallery girls, men with names you had to Google, women who called his car “cute” like it was a pet—now found himself flanked by two strangers whose personalities filled the room to its edges and back. Jim and Catherine were wildly, effortlessly themselves, and somehow that made everyone else from the past decade seem like background extras. Forgettable silhouettes. These two? They were vivid. Full.

The storm still howled outside like a drunk looking for a fight, rattling the glass with every gust. Catherine stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her damp dress—some delicate black thing that clung to her like melted ink—and pulled her soaked hair into a makeshift knot with a pencil she found on the windowsill. She looked like someone from a photograph you’d find in an old bookshop: timeless, a little ruined, but unforgettable.

“I’ll pay for the soup,” she said, gently tightening her cello’s bow. “With a song.”

Jim laughed, already pouring another round of scotch. “That’s the best currency I’ve heard all week.”

Harry didn’t say much. He never did, not in places like this. He felt oddly like a child again—watching magic unfold from the edges, unsure whether to be part of it or protect it from himself. Because this wasn’t his world. Not really. He was used to neat conversations and quiet transactions. Art as decor. Music as background. People as curated choices. But this? This felt real in the way storms were real—loud, inconvenient, alive.

“I’m not gonna play my original yet. This one is by Piero Piccioni, and it’s called ‘amore mio aiutami’. I adjusted the arrangements because it’s–”

“Hurry up, lass. We don’t care what you’re playing as long as it’s pretty.”

“Don’t mind him, kid. Go on,” said Harry. 

Catherine giggled and continued.

She settled into Jim’s old wooden chair, the one that wobbled with every shift, and rested her cello between her knees. Her fingers, pale and long, curled around the strings like she was holding something sacred. Then she played.

The room stilled—two men, decades apart, leaning in as if listening to a language only she spoke. And maybe she was. Something old and aching and gentle filled the air. Even Harry, whose thoughts never stopped moving, forgot them entirely.

Catherine played the cello like it was an extension of herself—too free, too effortless, too perfect for some local artist just starting out. Every note breathed as if it had been living inside her all along, waiting to be spoken. Her fingers moved with a quiet grace, delicate but sure, each shift and stroke precise yet fluid, like she was telling a story only her cello and she understood. It was intimate, personal, and completely unstudied—an organic dance between soul and instrument.

Harry, still tipsy from the gala and the long night before, suddenly sobered as the music pulled him in. He stopped chasing thoughts and distractions, letting the melody sink into every corner of him. He savored it—this memory, this moment—as if engraving it into his mind forever. Because Catherine wasn’t some polished act or curated performance. She was real. So real it hurt, a sharp ache behind his teeth he couldn’t ignore.

She looked like she belonged in the music: her green eyes—bright but shadowed—held a secret light, flickering gently beneath the soft pull of her small, almost shy smile. A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, like a tiny signature she forgot to hide. Freckles scattered lightly across the pale skin of her neck, subtle as dust motes in a shaft of afternoon light. Her dark blonde hair, more honeyed, caught the flicker of the low lamp, falling loose in soft waves that framed her face. And then there were her hands—dainty fingers curved around the cello’s neck with such tender familiarity, it was as if the instrument had grown from her very bones.

In that room, with the storm raging outside, Catherine’s music wrapped around them like a spell—intoxicating, unyielding, and utterly hers.

When the music stopped, the silence that followed felt like a velvet curtain falling. None of them spoke right away. Even Jim sat unusually still, the usual sparkle in his eye subdued, mellowed into something softer. Catherine smiled, a little shy now that the song was over, brushing a stray hair behind her ear as if the applause she received—two stunned men and a creaking floorboard—were too much.

After that, time didn’t quite return to normal. It lingered in that strange, slowed haze—the kind that settles after a heavy rain or a dream you don’t want to wake from. They stayed at the little table longer than expected, the cheap scotch softening the edges of their words. Catherine curled into the couch, barefoot now, long legs tucked under her, her hair loose and still damp at the ends. Jim had returned from the back with a wool blanket for her shoulders and a second bottle of something stronger. They talked like old friends who’d only just met.

She asked Harry about the gala—what it was for, who it was honoring, if he actually cared.

“Not really,” Harry had said, swirling the scotch in his glass. “The music wasn’t even good. Not a fraction close to what you played.”

“Well that’s because artists who perform at galas usually have a strict set list. They can’t play anything too distracting, or else it would cover the important conversations being held, isn’t that right? I’m sure you didn’t pay attention.”

He shrugged, trying not to smile. “True.”

“I know it’s true.”

And that’s how it went. Catherine poked at things like she was pulling threads—his likes, his family, what it meant to be surrounded by people but still felt unbearably alone. The conversation became too smooth and she seemed so interested that Harry couldn't help but open up.

He told her about his annual trip to Zurich, a funny story about his friend who wanted to retire early and begged him to do it too. He didn’t mind that it made him feel old, because she looked like she enjoyed his stories. 

She talked about the kind of studio she wanted to build, “somewhere warm, and loud,” where artists and musicians could just be without having to sell pieces of themselves to survive.

Jim, in the middle of it all, refilled glasses and told stories from the war, about a woman he once loved in Marseille, and how the rain back then didn’t feel so different. “Except now,” he muttered, “I’m slower, and my knees hate me.”

“We still love you,” Catherine told him, squeezing his hand.

Harry just watched, half-drunk and completely sober at once, folded into this odd scene. It was quiet and human and so unlike the nights he usually had.

Eventually, the storm outside softened into a steady drizzle. A faint hush blanketed the city beyond the fogged windows, and Harry knew he had to leave. He had a flight tomorrow. Back to the hotel, back to his driver, back to the cold marble world he was supposed to live in.

When he stood to go, he hesitated, then pulled a card from his pocket. It was damp around the edges, smudged, but he carefully pressed it into Catherine’s hand, making sure his number was still there. He didn’t know why he gave it to her. She was younger—probably still a student—but something tugged quietly at his heart. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or a hope that this unexpected night wasn’t the last.

Catherine looked at it for a moment. Her expression unreadable, but not unkind. There was a tug at the corner of her lips.

“You’re probably a brilliant prodigy slumming it for fun. But, uh—there’s my number. In case you… ever need it. Maybe you need an investor for your studio?”

Catherine giggled. “I got that covered, thanks. But I’ll take this card. Because you’re my friend.”

He started toward the door. The air had a bite to it now, the scent of wet asphalt rising.

Then, as if the scene was written by fate themselves, her voice said the words he’d long to hear since he started this damned journey into the storm in the first place:

“You’ll need a coat.”

He turned, struck. His heart was beating. His breath hitched. He could remember praying for that just moments ago. Of not having anyone to say those exact words to him. That was funny, he thought.

She was holding her coat out for him to take, a faded olive green trench with worn buttons and sleeves too long for her arms.

“Here, have mine,” she said.

Harry stared at it, at her. He wanted to laugh it off, say it wasn’t necessary, say the drizzle didn’t matter. His suit was already ruined anyway. But instead, he took it. Quietly. Gently. Because something in him wanted to.

He slipped it on. It smelled like rain and cello rosin and something sweet he couldn’t name.

Catherine gave him a look, one part smile, one part mystery.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

He stood in the doorway for a second longer than he should’ve. The rain fell around him like applause.

That was years ago.

He had waited for her call—maybe not right away, but someday, when she was older, when she had built the studio she talked about. Maybe he’d hear from her with an invitation to a classical concert, a small private gathering, something fitting for the girl with green eyes and a cello. But it never came. And over time, that night became a sweet memory, wrapped in nostalgia, folded carefully into the back pocket of his life. He had thought, more than once, about looking for her. But he didn’t. Some memories were too perfect to touch.

So he lived his life as if nothing had changed. As if that stormy night had only been shelter and soup. As if the freckled girl with the honeyed hair hadn’t quietly shaken something loose in him. He returned to his world—of business suits and curated smiles, of gallery openings and glass-walled meetings. He played his part. Well. Efficiently. But something had shifted, even if he didn’t let it show. There was now a quiet ache where something new had once flickered to life.

Then came Lucy.

The matchmaker. The woman with ambition in her eyes and a plan for everything, including love. He had liked her. Truly. She was intelligent and quick, and he admired how much she wanted to be right—for herself, for him. She had a list of things she wanted in a partner, and Harry ticked enough boxes to make her try. And maybe he had wanted to be the man on someone’s list, just once.

He had told Lucy about the storm once. Briefly. Skimming the surface. He mentioned the bookstore and the cello and the odd magic of it all, calling it “the realest moment” he’d had in years. But he didn’t say how it made him feel. That part he kept for himself. He knew Lucy wouldn't care anyway. Not for an odd story about strange people and drenched thousand-dollar suits. He couldn’t explain that it wasn’t even about romance—that it was something quieter, more sacred. Something that had made him feel seen.

And then came that storm. The one he didn’t like.

The one Lucy brought with her, and the one he brought himself. The whirlwind of trying to make two puzzle pieces fit when the edges had already worn down. The one where it made sense in the head, but not so much the heart. It had started fine, even pleasant—until it’s not. Lucy’s ex-boyfriend showed up. Looming, present in every silent pause between them. Harry had felt it the moment he met him—that sense of unfinished business. And from there, the storm only grew. The love triangle turned into a typhoon of messy truths and repressed wants. He could laugh at it now, in the way people laugh at their worst decisions, but at the time, it was excruciating. Embarrassing. He had stayed too long, said too little, and ignored too much.

It was a well-needed lesson, in life and in love.

But it was, thankfully, a finished story.