“Ah. Mysterious. I like it.”
I took a long sip of water and stared at the window like it held the answers to escaping a conversation you never signed up for.
Honestly? I should’ve gone into town. Eaten a greasy burger in solitude, listened to bad bar music, and avoided this exact scenario. Small talk over pasta. Questions from strangers. Strangers who might blog about me and give me some nickname like “The Brooding One in room four.”
I glanced once more at the kitchen doors.
Still no Fifi.
And now I was trapped in garlic pasta purgatory with someone who might ask for my Myers-Briggs score next.
I missed the chicken.
Hell, I missed the goat.
Next time, I will bring a decoy book.
Or earplugs.
Or both.
I made it through Carla’s monologue about a haunted bed-and-breakfast in Georgia and a full five-minute tangent on sheetthread counts before finally, mercifully, she excused herself to go check on dessert.
I nodded, shoved the last bite of chicken into my mouth, and stood up so fast my chair nearly squeaked in protest. I needed air. Real air. Cool air. Preferably, the kind that didn’t come with conversation or parrot anecdotes.
The sun had just started its slow descent behind the pines, casting everything in that syrupy golden light that made even gravel look poetic. I stepped outside onto the wide wraparound porch, the quiet pressing in like a balm. No voices. No obligations.
Just pine trees, fading light, and the buzz of something unnameable in my chest drifted through my evening, but then I saw her.
Fifi.
She was walking briskly from the side door of the lodge toward the gravel lot, her arms full of keys in hand, a canvas tote over one shoulder, her dark hair catching the light like something out of a dream sequence I hadn’t meant to be watching.
She didn’t see me. Or if she did, she didn’t show it.
She was wearing jeans and a loose sweater, boots that scuffed the dirt, and an unreadable expression—focused, maybe, determined. Perhaps a little tired. Not her usual blazing smile, but something quieter and real radiated from her.
She climbed into a huge old truck with a bumper sticker that saidSUPPORT LOCAL BEESand pulled the door closed with a soft thunk. A second later, the engine started, headlights flickered on, and she backed out slowly, tires crunching over gravel.
And then she was gone as the taillights disappeared down the drive that curved past the trees and into town.
I stood there a long moment, watching the space where her car had been.
And then something even stranger happened.
I wanted to follow.
Not in a creepy way. Not in arun-her-off-the-road-with-emotionkind of way. Just… a pull. A curiosity. A sudden urge to be somewhere else.
I didn’t want to go back inside and pretend I was bonding with Carla over cranberry compote.
I didn’t want to sit in my room scrolling through emails. I wasn’t ready to answer them.
I wanted to be in town.
Wherevershewas going.
Not to talk. Not even to be near her, necessarily.
