“I won’t tell a soul,” I promised.
She nodded her thanks and released me.
Then, I added, “Because those dolls will find and destroy me.”
I followed the sound of Joan’s laughter down the stairs.
We ate at her kitchen table. Joan set out cloth napkins and passed me a local IPA she knew I liked. The chili turned out to be pretty tasty, and I didn’t bother hiding how pleased I was when Joan requested seconds.
Our conversation stayed light during the meal. I didn’t bring up the kiss or anything feelings adjacent. I wanted to catch up with her first without seeming like I was chasing her down.
Afterward, I insisted on loading the dishwasher. Joan watched me with an amused expression as she finished the rest of my beer.
I wandered into the living room once more, and Joan followed, a few steps behind.
“Did you do any of these?” I asked, indicating the gallery wall.
Joan shook her head. “No. Some of them are Mercer’s photographs. The rest I picked up from local artists during festivals and events downtown.”
I opened my mouth to ask to see her movie collection, but I didn’t get the chance.
“What are you doing here, Ian?” she asked, not unkindly.
I had a moment of déjà vu, back to our very first encounter. How I’d been laid out on the ground, struggling to breathe after a failed attempt at exercise, while Joan leaned over me, wondering if I was dying.
I almost laughed, thinking I’d gotten a lot further this time before she’d finally come right out and asked what she’d really wanted to know.
Nervously, my hand went to the pocket of my jeans. I touched the black elastic band I kept there as a reminder and swallowed. “I wanted to talk about the other night. At the wedding.”
She didn’t say anything, and I felt my neck get hot.
“We kissed, Joan. Does that ring any bells?”
And then it was like I hadn’t spoken. Like she was in the middle of a conversation I hadn’t been a part of.
“Men do love a challenge,” she murmured thoughtfully.
“What?”
“You look at me and see someone to win over with your charm. Something to conquer. A tough nut to crack. But here’s the thing, Ian, there’s no prize here. When you get what you think you want, you don’t win anything. It’s just more of the same. More of me. And no matter how much it might feel like a game, there is no winning. So you should stop wasting your time.”
I stared at her, my heart beating hard. This didn’t feel like rejection, though. It felt like we were speaking two different languages.
“Is that what you think? That I’m wasting my time? Is that how you really see yourself?”
I took a step toward her, and she retreated.
Frowning, I said, “I thought we were past this. I’m not messing with the locals. I’m not bored or amusing myself. Do you think I’m pretending tobe attracted to you? That I’m what? Teasing you for the fun of it. Trying to get under your skin so I can embarrass you. That when you finally give in, I can laugh in your face and say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did you actually think I was into you?’ I mean, I knew your opinion of me was low, but wow, Joan. This isn’t a coming-of-age rom-com. It’s not a movie. It’s ... my life.”
She had the decency to look shamefaced, but then she blew out an exasperated breath. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not old,” I replied calmly.
“I’m just a farmer.”
