Travis Parker Vs Not Date Date

Notes from the Wyld (Please don't bother commenting that I said no more notes):

After completing Melody's Silence and Cycles, I found myself returning to writing about Travis Parker as a way to reset and reconnect with the type of storytelling that has always brought me joy. Writing Travis is like revisiting an old friend--his dry wit, resilience, and knack for sarcastic introspection make him endlessly entertaining to explore. The Day the Wi-Fi Betrayed Me initially set the tone for Travis's voice, and with each story since, I've delved deeper into his world. Taking a break from the intense emotional weight of Melody's Silence and the layered narrative of Cycles made coming back to Travis feel like a creative palate cleanse. His unapologetically honest perspective, even in the face of heartbreak, resonates with a raw authenticity that I love capturing. Whether he's navigating the aftermath of a brutal divorce, battling courtroom antics, or finding unexpected moments of humor, Travis's journey continues to challenge and inspire me as a writer. Returning to his story isn't just about finishing what I started--it's about honoring a character who has grown with me and reflecting on the resilience that lives within all of us.

Most important about the tales of Travis is getting my wife of 31 years to laugh. Without her editing skills, I would probably have a story more akin to a word search.

READY, SET, GO!

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Travis Parker:

Life has a funny way of knocking you on your ass when you least expect it. One minute, you're cruising through the so-called "happily ever after," complete with the suburban house, the family dog, and the white picket fence. The next, you're dividing assets, changing streaming service passwords out of spite, and wondering how you missed all the glaring red flags. Divorce wasn't exactly on my vision board. But, well, here I am -- single, in my mid 40s, and trying to remember what it's like to have a conversation that doesn't involve negotiations over custody schedules for Beth or who gets to keep the good blender. Spoiler alert: It wasn't me.

To be fair, the writing had been on the wall long before the lawyers got involved. Monica and I had grown into something more like begrudging roommates than partners. By the end, even small talk felt like verbal combat. The thing about infidelity is that once the trust is gone, there's no rewinding. Finding out your wife is having an affair with Big Rick the Gym Guy was the kind of cinematic twist I wouldn't even believe if it were in a bad Lifetime movie. But that's what happened. And once the divorce dust settled, I wasn't left with much except the house, the memories, and a growing addiction to late night action movies from the 90s.

Then, there were the kids. Traci, Francis, and Beth. My three reasons for not completely falling apart. Traci, my oldest, is stubborn as hell, definitely inherited that from me. She's still processing everything, protective as always, and not exactly Monica's biggest fan these days. Francis is... well, Francis. College-bound, protein-shake obsessed, and probably one missed gym day away from writing a strongly-worded letter to the dumbbell industry. And then there's Beth. Sixteen going on thirty. She's the one who still leaves me sarcastic post-it notes on the fridge and gives unsolicited fashion advice like it's her civic duty. They've all handled the chaos in their own ways, and somehow, we're still standing.

Now, though? Now I'm trying to figure out what's next. I wasn't exactly itching to jump back into the dating pool, but life -- or maybe Maggie -- had other plans. What started as a straightforward vendor and government liaison relationship turned into something... more. Maggie works for one of those three-letter agencies overseeing a project I'm tangled up in, but somewhere between the status reports and endless meetings, she became something else -- someone I could talk to. Someone who actually listened when I vented about the disaster that was my marriage. She laughed at my sarcastic takes on therapy, gave brutally honest advice, and somehow didn't run for the hills when I was at my lowest.

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There's a certain peace in having your Friday night routine down to a science. I'd cracked open a cold one, planted myself on the couch, and was halfway through an explosions-per-minute action flick that even the characters knew made no sense.

And then my phone buzzed.

Maggie: "Hey, got any plans tomorrow?"

I stared at the message. Maggie was never one for small talk. Normally, her texts read like she was delivering classified intel -- straight to the point, no unnecessary punctuation. The fact that she didn't open with, "Need to discuss the Parker Project. 0800 hours." was unsettling.

I texted back.

Me: "Why? You need backup for a secret mission?"

Maggie: "Not exactly. Thought we could hang out. Grab some food. Walk around the downtown festival."

Okay. That was suspicious. Festivals meant people. Crowds. Cotton candy. Maybe even one of those creepy guys on stilts. Maggie didn't "do" festivals. She "observed" them like she was gathering evidence for a top-secret report on human behavior.

I squinted at the phone like it would confess something to me. Maybe she lost a bet. Maybe this was a punishment.

Me: "Sounds suspiciously like a date."

Maggie: "Please. If I wanted a date, I'd find a guy who doesn't think fast food counts as meal prep."

Ouch. But fair.

Me: "Fine. But I'm calling it a "Not-Date." "

Maggie: "Deal. See you at noon. "

And just like that, I had a Not-Date on the calendar.

No expectations. No pressure. Just two friends, enjoying the sights and sounds of a downtown festival. Definitely not something people in rom-coms did before they accidentally fell in love.

Nope. Not a chance.

The next day, I pulled into the small, trendy café Maggie suggested. It was one of those places where everything on the menu had a name like "Avocado Nirvana" or "Zen Kale Bowl." The people inside probably paid $12 for coffee just to say they did.

But Maggie was already at a corner table, sipping something green and suspiciously healthy. I walked over, raising an eyebrow at the slime-colored beverage.

"Is that...radioactive ooze?" I asked, sliding into the seat across from her.

She smirked. "Matcha latte. It's like coffee, but it makes you feel superior."

"Mission accomplished," I said, waving down the server. "I'll take a black coffee and whatever has the most bacon."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Shocking."

The server nodded and left, leaving me alone with Maggie's amused stare. She looked good -- not that I was noticing. Okay, fine, I was noticing. Her hair was tied back, and she wore a simple, fitted green sweater that brought out her eyes. Totally platonic observation.

"So," I said, "tell me the truth. Did someone bet you to invite me here?"

She sipped her latte. "Maybe. Or maybe I thought you could use a little sunlight. You know, for vitamin D. People can't survive on takeout and sarcasm alone."

"That's where you're wrong." I grinned. "Sarcasm has trace minerals."

She snorted, nearly choking on her drink. I gave myself an internal high five.

The food arrived soon after -- my plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and enough buttered toast to intimidate any cardiologist. Maggie, naturally, had a small, picturesque plate of something that looked like a salad but pretended to be breakfast.

"You know," I said through a mouthful of bacon, "if I ever get hit by a bus, the doctors will find that my body was 80% this exact meal."

Maggie gave a dry laugh. "And 20% regret."

"That goes without saying."

We kept up the light-hearted banter, talking about work, ridiculous neighbors, and my uncanny ability to attract disaster wherever I went. She made me laugh -- really laugh -- in that way you only do when you're comfortable.

And that's when I realized how rare that feeling had been lately.

After brunch, Maggie and I wandered through the maze of tents and booths lining the festival streets. The smell of fried everything lingered in the air, mingling with the distant sound of a mediocre cover band that had committed musical crimes against Journey.

"This," I said, motioning to the chaos around us, "is how people end up with terrible purchases like metal lawn art and life-sized wooden owls."

Maggie smirked. "Oh no, I'm dragging you to every booth. We're getting the full festival experience."

"I knew it. You're a monster."

She rolled her eyes and grabbed my arm, leading me toward a stand with aggressively vibrant tie-dye shirts. A man in a straw hat, who I assumed was the self-proclaimed Tie-Dye Guru, gave us a wide grin.

"You two are just adorable," he said, with all the confidence of a man who probably meditated to whale sounds. "Matching couple shirts?"

Before I could object, Maggie gasped dramatically. "Oh no! We didn't coordinate. How will we ever recover?"

"Tragic," I deadpanned. "We'll be the scandal of the festival."

The guru cackled like he'd never heard sarcasm before. "Love is all about color! You can't go wrong with a little tie-dye harmony."

"I'll keep that in mind," I muttered as Maggie pulled me away, still laughing.

"You handled that well," she teased.

"I try," I said. "But I think we're at level two of 'people assuming we're a couple.'"

"Oh, absolutely." She grinned. "Next stop, uncomfortable comments from elderly vendors."

Sure enough, at the next booth, a grandmotherly woman selling homemade jams and jellies gave us a once-over and clasped her hands together.

"You two remind me of my husband and me when we were young," she said wistfully. "The way you look at each other."

I blinked. "Oh, I'm pretty sure I was just admiring your blueberry jam."

"Nonsense," she said, shoving a jar into my hands. "True love is like a good jam -- it takes time to sweeten."

Maggie, ever the composed one, nodded sagely. "Wise words."

"Oh, you're enjoying this," I whispered as we walked away.

"A little." She smiled. "Okay, a lot."

We passed through rows of local artisans, dodged a troupe of jugglers who were clearly testing their insurance coverage, and lingered by a tent selling aggressively overpriced scented candles.

"I think we're up to level three," I said, inhaling something labeled 'Midnight Lavender Forest Storm.'

"Which level is that?" Maggie asked.

"The one where people ask when we're getting married."

She grinned. "Perfect. Let's keep going."

I shook my head, but I couldn't deny that I was having a good time. The festival, with all its weirdness and awkward couple assumptions, had managed to distract me from the looming divorce decree. For the first time in months, I felt... normal.

Until, of course, we passed the booth that sealed my fate.

A woman in a billowy purple robe, with enough bangles to set off airport security, locked eyes with me from across the street. A crooked sign read:

"Madame Serena -- Fortune Teller. Past, Present, and Future!"

"Oh no," I said.

"Oh yes," Maggie corrected, already steering me toward the tent. "We are absolutely doing this."

"I regret everything."

She smiled sweetly. "Too late."

And with that, we stepped into the unknown.

The tent was exactly what you'd expect if someone had Googled "stereotypical psychic setup" and hit purchase all. Heavy purple curtains draped the walls, a table covered in dark velvet dominated the center, and the whole place smelled like incense and questionable life choices.

A crystal ball -- because of course there was a crystal ball -- gleamed under the dim glow of a flickering lamp.

And seated behind it, Madame Serena herself.

She was a petite woman with frizzy black hair and a suspicious amount of gold jewelry. She looked like she belonged in a mystery movie, specifically as the character who says, "The cards never lie!" right before someone gets dramatically poisoned.

"Welcome," she purred, extending her hands theatrically. "I see two souls seeking answers."

"More like a couple of people killing time before the fried dough stand opens," I muttered.

Maggie elbowed me. "Play nice."

"Please, sit," Madame Serena said, motioning to the chairs. "The universe has brought you here for a reason."

"The universe or Maggie?" I deadpanned, but I sat down anyway.

Madame Serena smiled knowingly, as if I had just revealed my darkest secrets instead of a mild attempt at humor. She stared at Maggie and me with such intensity that I briefly wondered if she could, in fact, see into my soul. Spoiler: My soul was 90% sarcasm.

"Ah," she said dramatically, peering at us. "You are not... lovers."

"Nope," I replied quickly. "Just friends."

She narrowed her eyes. "But are you sure?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure," I said, feeling like I'd just walked into a romantic comedy death trap.

Maggie, to her credit, remained entirely unfazed. "What else do you see?"

Madame Serena's fingers hovered over the crystal ball like she was tuning a radio to the spirit world. Then, without even pretending to glance into it, she stared directly at me.

"You carry the weight of betrayal," she said ominously.

I stiffened. "Wow. Lucky guess. Did you Google me before we came in here?"

She ignored me. "But... your heart is still open. Searching. Though it may deny it, it longs for something it believes it cannot have."

Maggie smirked, enjoying this far too much. "And what might that be?"

Madame Serena's eyes gleamed. "Love."

I immediately coughed. "Or indigestion. Hard to tell sometimes."

Maggie elbowed me again, harder this time. "Focus."

Madame Serena pressed on. "I see a bond. Strong. Formed not only through hardship but laughter. Comfort. And... attraction."

"Wow." I gestured to the crystal ball. "That thing sure is opinionated."

"You deflect," Madame Serena said, wagging a ring-covered finger at me. "But even the most stubborn heart cannot deny the truth forever."

Maggie raised an eyebrow at me, clearly amused. "Stubborn heart? Sound familiar?"

"Oh, not at all," I said. "She's probably referring to my unwavering devotion to bacon."

Madame Serena, however, was not done. She leaned in closer, her voice lowering to a dramatic whisper. "You both stand at a crossroads. One path is familiar, comfortable. The other... uncertain, but full of possibility."

She paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"And which path will we choose?" Maggie asked, entirely playing along.

Madame Serena's smile returned. "Only you can decide."

I tried not to roll my eyes, but it was a struggle. "Well, thanks for the cryptic life advice. Can I get a punch card? Do five vague fortunes, get the sixth free?"

Maggie laughed, but Madame Serena didn't even flinch. "The heart knows," she said softly. "You may try to ignore it, but it will not be ignored forever."

With that, she gestured to the entrance, apparently declaring the session over.

"Cool. Super helpful," I said, standing up. "Next time, I'm going to the booth where they make balloon animals. At least they're upfront about the nonsense."

Maggie shook her head, still chuckling, and followed me out. As the sunlight hit us, I exhaled dramatically. "Well, that was enlightening. I'm now 100% certain I've wasted ten minutes of my life."

"Come on," Maggie said with a grin. "You have to admit she was a little... spot on."

"Please. She's probably used that line on every couple today. 'You stand at a crossroads. Choose the love path. Blah, blah, fate.'"

Maggie tilted her head. "And what if she's right?"

I froze for a second too long. "Then I guess I'll need to watch out for mysterious crossroads signs. Maybe they'll come with a 'Free Wi-Fi' symbol."

Maggie rolled her eyes, but the thought lingered.

And deep down -- not that I'd admit it -- I couldn't shake the feeling that Madame Serena had seen right through me.

The festival had started to wind down by late afternoon. The cover band had mercifully stopped playing, replaced by a small acoustic duo that actually seemed to understand what rhythm was.

Maggie and I wandered along the quieter side streets, dodging stray bits of confetti and leftover popcorn bags. The earlier buzz of the crowd had faded, leaving a far more peaceful atmosphere. It would've been perfect--if not for the echo of Madame Serena's words still bouncing around in my head.

"The heart knows."

Yeah, well, I wished it would shut up.

"So," Maggie said, breaking the silence. "Admit it. You're a little freaked out."

I scoffed, though I'm sure the unconvincing tone didn't do me any favors. "Freaked out? Please. Madame Serena's crystal ball probably runs on AA batteries."

Maggie smirked. "She did seem to get under your skin a bit."

"Not at all," I said, perhaps a little too quickly. "I've just never been a fan of fake wisdom and ominous hand gestures."

"Really?" Maggie's grin grew. "Because I'm pretty sure you looked like you were about to leap out of your chair when she mentioned that 'bond' thing."

"Pfft. What bond? We're just two people who share a common interest in mocking ridiculous situations."

"Oh, absolutely," she said, her grin lingering.

We strolled in comfortable silence for a few moments. The breeze was cool, tugging at the loose strands of Maggie's hair. The sky had shifted to that soft golden hue -- the kind you see in romantic movies right before someone makes an emotionally reckless decision.

"So," Maggie finally said, her voice quieter now. "What's next for you?"

"Besides the obvious?" I ran a hand through my hair. "Wait for the divorce decree to come through. Then... figure out what life looks like after all of this."

She nodded slowly. "You ever think about what it's going to be like once you don't have Monica's drama hanging over you?"

I sighed. "I guess I'll finally get to see what 'normal' looks like."

Maggie tilted her head. "And what's normal for Travis Parker?"

I was about to respond with some half-baked joke about watching 90s action movies and eating pizza on the couch, but the words didn't come.

Because the truth was, I wasn't entirely sure. For so long, surviving had been the goal. Now that freedom was within reach, I wasn't certain what I'd do with it.

"Maybe," I said softly, "normal looks a little like this."

I meant it as a casual comment, but the second it left my mouth, I regretted it. Maggie's eyes flicked to mine, and the air between us shifted. It wasn't dramatic like the movies -- no swelling music or slow-motion gazes -- just this quiet, undeniable current pulling us closer.

Her face softened, her lips parting slightly. The sunlight caught in her hair, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't thinking about courts, lawyers, or regret.

I was just thinking about her.

The space between us narrowed, and for a heartbeat, I swore we were about to--

BRRRING.

My phone. Of course.

I pulled back like I'd been caught committing a felony. Maggie blinked, clearing her throat as I fumbled for my phone.

"Sorry," I muttered, checking the screen. Francis. Perfect timing, as always.

"You should get that," she said, her voice laced with amusement -- and maybe a little relief.

"Yeah." I stood, still feeling the lingering warmth of how close we'd been. "Could be important."

Or, knowing Francis, it could be a meme of a raccoon in a cowboy hat. Fifty-fifty shot.

"Hey," Maggie called as I answered the phone. "Next time, no phones allowed."

I grinned, though my heart was still pounding. "Next time, huh?"

She smiled, and just like that, the moment passed. But I had a feeling we weren't quite done with whatever the hell this was.

Not by a long shot.

I pulled into my driveway later that evening, the hum of my car engine dying down as I sat there for a moment, staring at the porch light. The house looked... peaceful. For once, there was no drama, no unexpected visits, no threats of "discussing things like adults."