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“Jimmy’s?” He toed at a pebble in her path, clearing it from the sidewalk. “Is that a bar?”
“It’s technically a pub. Its full name is Jimmy O’Callaghan’s Irish Public House. But everyone calls it Jimmy’s. It’s usually not as crowded as Randy’s.”
“Randy’s?” The string lights from the Herron’s Home Décor awning twinkled in his rich brown eyes as he turned to face her. “Let me guess, it’s actually Randall Fitzsimmons’s Old English Tavern and Gastropub?”
“How did you know?” When he smiled, she explained, “Randy’s is where the young, single people go. It’s more of a shouting-at-each-other-while-your-shoes-stick-to-the-floor than a scheming-with-your-impromptu-wedding-date kind of place.”
“Ah, well, Jimmy’s it is.” He turned, and they started walking again. “Although Randy’s sounds like a good time.”
A memory of a particularly sloppy make out session with Andrew Grant in one of Randy’s back booths emerged from the blurry depths of her twenties. “When I was younger, it definitely was.”
With a soft bite on his lower lip that made her bra shrink two sizes, he said, “That sounds like a story I want to hear.”
In that moment, Mira appreciated the evening. She even appreciated the dim, vacant storefront where the Candy Station used to be. Because in the darkness, he couldn’t see how easily he’d made her blush.
“Lots of these places are for sale, aren’t they?” He pointed to the for-sale sign in the Candy Station’s window, then across the street at the string of empty stores that used to be a photography studio, a boutique, and a Mexican restaurant.
“Small towns,” Mira said, like that would explain everything. But he was from the city, so maybe it didn’t. “It’s hard to make a living in Red Falls. It’s even harder to keep young people from leaving once they graduate from high school. A lot of these stores had been owned by the same families for generations, just like Glazed. But taxes keep increasing as wealthy, out-of-state people move to Montana. Costs rise every year, consistent staff is harder and harder to find, and as younger people inherit these businesses from their parents and grandparents, they see the expenses and the difficulties, and it’s just not worth it compared to the money they could make somewhere else. And believe me”—she kicked at her own little pebble, imagining it was her last bank account statement—“I understand why they make that choice.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “Have you ever thought about leaving?”
Breathing in the evening air, the freshness of pine and sweetness of just-bloomed lilacs, and glancing up at stars she always felt closer to here than anywhere else, despite her own expenses and difficulties, Mira said, “No. Not once.”
* * *
Jimmy’s was hoppingby Red Falls standards, couples in cowboy boots two-stepping on the dance floor, every barstool occupied, most of the tables jam-packed with pitchers and pints. It wasn’t that Mira was surprised half the town was there, but part of her had hoped it would have been a slow night. That way she might have avoided the awkward joy of introducing Cole to Bud from the hardware store while he shared a mountain of nachos with his husband, Brad, and asked way too many questions. Or the barely sensical conversation they’d struggled through with an absolutely tanked Jules and Malcolm while they gushed about the eight-month-old triplets they were finally taking a night off from. Or the overly persuasive Carl and Carrie from the gas station who’d tried so hard to get them to do tequila shots, Cole had to fake an incoming call so they could make a break for it.
But it wasn’t until Jen flagged them down, her red hair braided over her shoulder, her blue eyes already scheming, that Mira set her jaw and crossed her fingers behind her back. She’d given Jen the run-down on Cole when she’d dropped her mom off for therapy earlier in the day, but that in no way meant Jen wouldn’t…Jen.
“Hi,” Cole said to Jen and the two other therapists from her rehab facility sitting with her. “I’m Cole.”
“We know who you are,” a very millennial therapist said. Mira thought her name was Taylor. “My fiancé subscribes to your YouTube.”
“Nice. Tell them thanks for the support.”
“I’m Jen.” Jen’s hand whipped out across the table. “Mira’s best friend. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Jen,” Cole said smoothly, shaking her hand before turning it over in his, studying it, pulling it in for a closer look. “Love the nails.”
While the therapist who might have been named Taylor said, “Sa-woon,” under her breath, Jen took her hand back, stared down at her sunset and palm trees manicure, then blinked up at Mira. Her expression was unreadable, and Mira bit her cheek, waiting for Jen to do something like call Cole a “charming devil” or tell them they looked hot together. Because while she was one of the most infectiously vibrant people on the planet, Jen was also brutally honest and had no filter whatsoever. So when she only smiled and said, “Have fun, you two,” Mira wondered if she was coming down with something.
“Jen seems nice,” Cole said, sliding into a dim corner booth once they’d finally made it through the gauntlet of a small-town bar meet and greet.
“She’s great,” Mira agreed, pulling her buzzing phone out of her purse while she took her seat, because she never missed a buzz, not a text, not a call, in case Ian or her mom needed her. This buzz, however, was not from either of them. This buzz was from the Jen she knew and loved.
Jen: Mira. MIRA!! That man is gorgeous! Like Johnny Knoxville and Timothy Olyphant had a sexy baby. And he noticed my mani. Who does that? If you don’t fuck him, I will.
Deleting the text faster than an unsolicited dick pic, Mira shoved her phone back into her purse and looked across the table at Cole. Jen’s description, she realized, had been devastatingly accurate.
“All right,” he said, unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt, getting comfortable while her nerves shot a hole through the ceiling. “Tell me everything about you.”
“Ha! Ha ha!” she blurted out. “I might need a drink first.”Or three.
He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his crisp white shirt, black belt, and flat stomach moving directly into her line of sight. “What’s your poison?”
Johnny Knoxville lookalikes. “Vodka cran?”
“Coming right up.”
