And no, I am not going to mention how that spiraled into me hosting a sports romance weekend at the store last year—which reminds me to schedule another one and soon.
“So, wow, that’s huge. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. It is pretty big.”
I expect to see him gloating, but the truth is he doesn’t look thrilled.
He looks conflicted.
And that’s odd.
“So, what’s the issue?” I ask carefully.
He glances at me.
Then around the shop.
“At some point, I have to decide where I’m going. What I’m doing. In my career. My life. I gotta settle whether this”—he gestures vaguely at the world beyond the windows—“is temporary.”
The words land.
Harder than I expect.
“Oh,” I say again, quieter this time.
Temporary.
Right.
Of course, it is.
This is a vacation for him.
A detour.
He has better, bigger things to go on to.
I can’t relate.
I’m very much a part of this town.
Just a small-town girl.
Too rooted, remember?
I busy myself straightening a stack of books that are already straight.
“Well,” I say lightly, “whatever you decide, I mean it, congratulations. That’s amazing.”
He watches me.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m very convinced,” I reply. “National exposure? Stadium crowds? That’s gotta be exciting in your world.”
“And what do you think my world is?”
I meet his eyes.