I stir my coffee and don’t answer straight away. In truth, it’s neither. I’ve never had trouble knowing what I want. Right now, I want the woman across from me to stop pretending she’s taking professional notes and admit she’s been watching my mouth the same way I’ve been watching hers.
I look up and hold her gaze. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“If it’s about a felony, I’d rather not know.”
“I don’t think it’s the girls,” I say, quietly. “I think it’s me.”
For a second, she’s got nothing. Just the faint click of her teeth when she shuts her mouth. “You think you’re the problem?”
“I mean, statistically, it’s possible.”
She makes a note. “Sounds like a challenge.”
“Maybe you could teach me.” I’m only half-joking, but even that feels risky. “How to date. The way normal people do.”
She leans back, eyes narrowed but interested. “You want me to coach you… in dating?”
“Sure. I’m coachable. Could even role-play, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
The pencil in her bun almost falls out. She catches it. “Rhett, that’s not really?—”
“Professional? I don’t mind keeping it off the record. Let’s call it a test-drive.”
She considers, lips pursed, then her eyes lock on mine with something like suspicion and something else I don’t know the name for. “One dinner,” she says. “Strictly business. I’ll show you how it’s supposed to go.”
I hold up my hands. “Scout’s honor.”
She hands me a card, and I make a show of reading it. “You’re on,” I say.
The nightof the practice date, I shower and even use conditioner, which I haven’t done since 2004. I show up at the pizza place on time, and she’s already there, waiting. It isn’t fancy, but the air is warm with garlic and oregano. Hannah’s wearing a sundress, a denim jacket over her chair, and her hair down and simple. I almost don’t recognize her. She looks like something I didn’t know I’d been missing until just now.
She runs the first ten minutes like a teacher prepping for a quiz. “First rule,” she says, “is to pay attention. Real attention. No deflecting with jokes. No stories that end with someone getting arrested or losing a limb.”
I nod, even though this is basically ninety percent of my personality.
She asks questions about my day, the ranch, and who I call when I’m in trouble. I answer honestly, or as close as I get, and I watch how she takes it in. She makes room for the answers. When I toss the ball back to her, she doesn’t shirk, either.
Halfway through, I realize I’m talking for real, not out of obligation, but because it’s fun to see what she’ll do with it. With the others, I mostly filled dead air. With her, I want to know what comes next.
I buy her a beer, and she doesn’t even flinch at the brand. I pick off her pizza toppings (green olives), and she lets me. Somewhere in the lull, she says, “You could be good at this. If you tried.”
“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right practice partner.”
She flushes, which I’m 100% sure is new. “You’re learning,” she says.
The diner is almost empty by the time we leave. We walk Main Street, saying nothing, breathing the cool night. She points out a house she’d earmarked for herself once, if she ever got serious about Sagebrush.
The stars are out, big enough to count. We stop in front of her car, but she doesn’t unlock it.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks up. “Yeah?”
“I told you I was a slow learner.”
“That so?”
I take one step closer, close enough that she can see I’m not joking, not hiding, not deflecting. The tension between us is a pulled thread.
