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“Yup,” he says. “And if you don’t cheer up, I’ll make even worse jokes.”
“I’m not sure that was a joke,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sure,” he says. “That was the height of hilarity and there’s more where it came from.”
I hide a smile and lean back in the passenger seat, watching the road disappear under his SUV as we drive toward Loveless Brewing.
Loveless Brewing, where my secret boyfriend is. You know, the one who doesn’t know that I’ve got an interview soon for a job that’s halfway across the country.
“You don’t even have a girlfriend,” I point out. “How are you making dad jokes already?”
“You don’t need a girlfriend to be a father,” Silas says. “Technically, all you need is a one-night-stand and an accident. Doesn’t even need to be a whole night, you could just—”
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” I shout, covering my face with my hands.
“—I’m just saying, could be a five-minutes-in-the-bar-bathroom stand,” he says, clearly laughing at me. “Sperm is sperm.”
“Never say that to me again,” I tell him through my fingers.
“What? Sper—”
“What did I just say?”
“That you’re a stick in the mud who can’t handle a joke.”
I look over at him. He’s grinning like the total dick he is.
“Can I walk the rest of the way?” I ask.
“You could, but it’s about half a mile,” he says. “By the time we finish arguing about where to let you out we’ll be there anyway.”
He’s right, because thirty seconds later we’re pulling into the nearly-full gravel lot at Loveless Brewing, a big building a few miles outside town, sandwiched in the middle of farmland.
A teenager in a bright yellow reflective vest waves us into a parking spot. The vest also has blinking red lights on it, and the teenager doesn’t look too excited about that part.
The evening air is crisp, autumnal, with just a whisper of the winter that’s around the corner. It smells like dried leaves and dirt, with a hint of woodsmoke and apple cider donuts.
Find him and tell him, I think to myself.
You owe him that. Once you tell Levi you can have as much beer and as many donuts as you want, but you have to tell him first.
My stomach is a knot as Silas and I head for the entrance to the patio, currently festooned with jack-o’-lanterns and dried corn stalks. One of the jack-o-lanterns is a vague, round-ish shape that, upon closer inspection, I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a wombat.
I think Rusty made that one.
Beyond the is the patio, lit by lights strung back and forth overhead, and past that in the yard they’ve set up a pumpkin-shaped bouncy house, a huge inflatable slide, and a whole bunch of yard games. Between the yard games and the road are four or five fire pits, all with wood piled high.
We both pull out our wallets, but the guy with the tickets waves them away. I think, but am definitely not sure, that his name is Steve.
“Levi put you on the list,” he says to Silas, already putting a wristband on. “You’re June, right?”
I do my best not to blush slightly, and I’m pretty sure I fail even though there’s nothing here to blush about. Levi’s a nice person, of course he’d put his friend’s sister on the list.
“Yup,” I confirm, get a band, and we walk into Fall Fest.
It’s been going on since the afternoon, but I had to finish a freelance article about stop signs for the Sprucevale Lance-Star, and Silas was doing something for work, so we couldn’t get here until now.
The bouncy house and inflatable slide are nearly still. The kids seem to be mostly gone, with the exception of a squadron of eight-to-ten-year-olds sprinting around and shrieking. Rusty’s probably one of them. Hell, she’s probably the ringleader.
The patio is pretty full though, all the cafe tables and lounge chairs in their various configurations claimed by adults drinking beers.
None of the adults seem to be Levi, at least that I can see. Also, I can smell apple cider donuts, but I can’t see them. They’ve gotta be somewhere.
Truth first, I remind myself. Donuts next.
“You want something?” Silas asks, making the universal drinking a beer hand gesture.
“Sure,” I say, still scanning the patio and field beyond for Levi, heartbeat ticking up.
“What do you want?”
“Whatever you get,” I tell him, shrugging with a shrug that’s hopefully nonchalant.
“Cool,” he says, and heads toward the nearest bar area.
Levi’s not on the patio. He’s unsurprisingly not on the slide, and I feel like I can assume that he’s not in the bouncy house. I wander further afield, trying to look like I’m just hanging out and waiting for a beer delivery, not like I’m watching everyone with a hawklike gaze, trying to find one specific person.
Finally, I spot him. He’s alone, wearing what’s essentially his uniform of well-fitting jeans and a plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, walking around the corner of the building toward the back.
