She studies me for a second. "No," she says, quieter now. "I'm starting to think you're not."
And I should leave that alone. Should let it be a nice moment and pivot to something safer.
Instead, I lean a little closer and say, "For the record, you couldn't pay me to go to a county fair."
"No? Not even for the corn dogs?"
I move back quickly. “The corn dogs arethatgood, huh?”
"All of the deep-fried stuff is amazing. Corn dogs, Oreos, butter?—"
"They deep-frybutter?"
"On a stick. As God intended." She's grinning now, fully turned toward me on her stool. "There's also a Ferris wheel that was probably last inspected in 2000, if you’re lucky, and a livestock tent that reeks like—” She grimaces. “Sorry, I'll spare you.”
"Too late. I'm already imagining it."
"You're not imagining it bad enough, trust me." She shudders dramatically, and I laugh…a sound that surprises me on the way out.
Her eyes light up.
I shouldn't be noticing that.
We're on our second round of drinks when she tells me about the time she tried to chop firewood and nearly put it through the kitchen window of her apartment. The way she tells it—earnestly, self-deprecating, and complete with sound effects—has me gripping the edge of the bar trying to hold it together.
"It wasn't even close to the wood," she says, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "It just,whoosh,flew out of my hand. The neighbors thought I was being attacked. Someone called 911."
"What, really?”
"I was chopping wood at eleven o'clock at night, in my pajamas, on the back porch! I lookedinsane."
"You were insane. Who chops wood in pajamas?"
"Someone who was very cold and very stubborn and deeply committed to not turning on the heater since it makes a weird noise. I'm convinced it's going to explode."
“I’ll have to teach you the proper way to chop wood,” I say, before I can catch myself. I shouldn’t be saying things that imply a future.
But I can't help it. She's got this gravitational pull that I don't think she's even aware of—this warmth that draws you in, makes you want to get closer. Her leg bumps mine under the bar, and neither of us moves away.
Her shampoo smells tropical and sweet and I’ll remember it later whether I want to or not.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, and her voice has gone a little softer, a little more careful.
The bartender sets down her third whiskey sour and my third beer. The bar has filled up around us and I hadn't noticed, which until now has not been something that happens to me.
"Go for it."
"You said you're passing through. Do you always pass through, or do you ever—" She swirls the ice in her drink. "Land?"
The question hits somewhere I wasn't expecting. "I haven't found the right place to land yet."
She studies me. For a second I think she's going to ask the follow-up, and try to dig into why a thirty-five-year-old man is still drifting like a tumbleweed with a truck payment.
But she doesn't. She just nods, slowly, and says, "You will."
Like she believes it. As if it's obvious.
Something in my chest aches.