Not throwing. Not reaching for a dart. Standing at the line with his arm at his side, three darts still in his other hand, looking straight at me.
I should have turned around fast. I should have smiled politely and faced the counter and pretended I hadn’t been caught looking. That’s what I did at trailheads and gear booths and brand events and airports. I had a whole repertoire of small graceful retreats.
I did not retreat.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
He had dark hair, not too long, pushed back off his forehead from running a hand through it. A jaw that had not been shaved in a day or two. Eyes I couldn’t see well across the room, but I would have bet they weren’t pale. He was tall, even at twenty feet of distance, and he was built like a man who used his body for work and not for a gym.
Someone next to him said, “Kirk. You’re up.”
He did not turn his head.
He said something low to the guy beside him without looking away from me, and the guy laughed and said something back, and Kirk—the man in the dark T-shirt, the man at the line, the man who was apparently named Kirk—handed his darts off and walked away from the board.
He walked toward the counter.
He walked toward me. Long, unhurried steps. He did not adjust his shirt. He did not run a hand through his hair. He came across the diner like a man who knew exactly where he was going and was not in any particular rush about it.
He stopped at the stool next to mine and looked down at me. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“I just got into town.”
He pulled out the stool. He didn’t ask. He just dragged it back and sat down on it and turned toward me, one elbow on the counter, the other hand on his thigh. Up close, his eyes were a dark green, and there was a small scar through his right eyebrow that looked old.
“How long are you here for?” he said.
“Until Saturday.”
He looked at me a beat. “That’s not enough time.”
I didn’t know what to do with that.
West reappeared with my burger and a basket of fries, set them down in front of me, and said, “Spencer. Beer?”
“Yeah. Whatever’s on.”
West nodded and walked off. Spencer. His first name was Spencer. Or maybe it was his last name. All I knew was that his name was some configuration of Spencer and Kirk.
“I’m Joy,” I said.
“Joy what?”
“Hayward.”
“Joy Hayward.” He said it once, like he was checking the shape of it. He nodded a little. “Spencer Kirk.”
“I guess your friend was calling you by your last name.”
He almost smiled. It didn’t quite get there, but I saw it try.
West came back with a bottle of beer and set it in front of him without a coaster and walked off again. Spencer gripped the bottle but didn’t lift it.
