Page 32 of Off the Trail

“That I wouldn’t know,” he says. “But yeah, Billie and Gail were friends of my parents, so I’ve known them forever. Gail’s the cook, Billie’s the business side. They have a booth at the farmer’s market, and Gail makes the absolute best bratwurst you’ve ever had in your life.”

“Sounds like a good team.”

“This was a good idea,” he says. “Thanks, Shawn.”

I feel unreasonably proud for offering him an experience he’s never had before. “Good thing we like pork chops, though.”

He laughs lightly. “True.”

Billie brings us our drinks, then we shoot the shit with her for a few minutes. A chime comes from somewhere in the house, and she excuses herself, returning a minute later with a young couple in tow. She seats them on the other side of the solarium, though it’s not that large a space. The girl seems oblivious, but the guy does a bit of a double take when he spots us across the room.

Blaze pours his beer into the frosted pint glass Billie provided, so I do the same. He raises his drink, and I smile as he looks for words for a toast. “To trying new things,” he says finally.

I touch the rim of my glass to the side of his with a faint clink. “To trying new things.”

As I take a sip, I consider the newness of the feelings I’ve been having over the past few days. I wasn’t given a choice about coming to Sanctuary Lake. It was this or losing Callie in my corner. But her orders to get my head on straight were spot-on. I clearly hadn’t been thinking very clearly in the run-up to what happened with my Lambo.

I’d needed something to jolt me into shaping up, but who knew that an out-of-the-way lake in Maine and the kind man working there would make me realize I’ve been missing out on big chunks of my life? I shouldn’t have let baseball consume so much of my soul. Spending time with Blaze has made me recognize I’ve let certain parts of myself molder and shrivel and nearly die.

But one part of me is very clearly not dead. The part that looks at Blaze and wants something I’ve never wanted before.

Billie comes by with long matches and lights the votive candle sitting in a squat glass dish in the middle of the table. It’s almost romantic.

And then it hits me like a fastball to the head—it’s not almost romantic. The candle, the twinkle lights in the rafters of the solarium that are taking over now that it’s growing dark outside, the intimate table for two, my offering to pay—all of this is pretty fucking romantic.

I haven’t been on one in a while, but I’ve been on dates not all that different from this.

Fuck.

My palms start sweating, and my breathing goes shallow. How did I not see this? How did I not notice? Does Blaze think something is weird? Is something weird? Maybe this is totally normal, and I’m the one blowing everything out of proportion. I wipe my hands on my thighs and glance across the room at the couple sitting at the other table. The girl’s face is glowing in the candlelight, and she’s staring at the guy like he’s imparting the meaning of life to her. Their ankles are touching, and the guy has one hand resting on the table, the girl lightly stroking the back of his knuckles. They look like they’re going to leave dinner and go fuck in their doily-covered bedroom.

I’ve accidentally invited Blaze into something that very much resembles a date.

But if it’s two friends hanging out for dinner, it’s not a date, right? For it to be a true date, there’d have to be some declaration of intent. Blaze would have to think it’s a date, too, and there’s no way he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Is there?

Billie delivers a basket of sliced sourdough bread and a small ramekin of butter.

“Oh god, this is incredible, you have to try it,” Blaze says, pushing the basket toward me. “They must get their butter from the same place Nolan does. It’s so good.”

Instead of watching Blaze eat and second-guessing everything, I do what he suggests and spread a generous dollop of butter on a slice of bread. The flavor is rich and salty on my tongue.

“Holy mother,” I say, “that’s the best bread and butter I’ve ever had.”

“I could practically just eat this for dinner,” he says, taking a second piece.

“Beer and bread? Lots of carbs,” I say.

He pats his stomach, which isn’t flat, but isn’t flabby. It’s more like a firm, round barrel to go with his strong pecs and shoulders. The guy could probably bench me without breaking a sweat.

“I’m a carbs fan,” he says.

“Oh, are the carbs making it to the playoffs this year?” I joke.

He laughs generously, and I’m way too pleased with myself. “Should we check the score?”

Oh yeah. The Laurels game. “Why not?” Maybe checking in on real life will make this seem less like a fantastic dream. I feel a little guilty for not being in touch with Jett, and some of the other guys. But they don’t need me to tell them good luck. They don’t need me at all.

He pulls his phone out of his jacket, pocket then frowns at the screen. “Oh, shit.”