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“It’s not.”

Callie puts an elbow on the counter and reaches for my chin, turning my face toward hers so I’m forced to observe the calm behind her eyes. Despite myself, her pale blue irises calm me. “I don’t want to add to your stress level.” Her voice has the soothing cadence of the meditation podcasts I used to force myself to listen to—only I don’t feel forced now.

“You’re not.” I let out a long breath. “I appreciate your willingness to do this. I just hate trying to stage these little farces in public.”

“So maybe we don’t stage them. It’s a small town. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other. And we’ll take it from there. Let’s not overthink it.”

I nod, feeling like it might be the only way forward. Also liking the warmth of her fingers beneath my chin and feeling myself lean into them ever so slightly. Her eyes stay locked on mine for another second before she removes her hand. It’s as though touching me was nothing she wouldn’t do to the server on the other side of the counter if he wasn’t paying enough attention to what she was saying. Not a special gesture just for me.

“What about you? Boyfriend back in LA?”

“No, nothing like that. I date, but nothing serious. When it’s not fun anymore, I’m out.”

She’s just conveying information, so it shouldn’t make me feel one way or the other. And it certainly shouldn’t bum me out. Her dating life has nothing to do with me.

I pretend to check my phone to avoid coming up with a response.

Our swiveling barstools are upholstered in a red sparkly plastic that matches the small lamps hanging from the ceiling. And Callie is right about the double-double burger. And how hungry she was. Our meals arrive, and within two minutes she powers down a third of her double-double with short pauses to slurp a chocolate shake through a straw in a soda glass.

She seemed aghast that I didn’t want to join her for that sugar rush in a glass, but I still have a long day ahead, and the crash after a sugar high doesn’t fit into it.

The place is packed, and I can’t remember the last time I ate lunch anywhere but at my desk or in my truck. It sort of astounds me that this many people managed to leave whatever they were doing on a weekday and come here for lunch. I don’t recognize any of them.

“So, your ex-wife’s lawyer said something about all the randos you have taking care of your kid. What was that about?”

Callie bites into her burger, oblivious to a dribble of Thousand Island dressing on her chin. I point and wait for her to dab it away with a napkin, but she misses the spot. “Did I get it?”

“Nope.” I don’t want to reach over and wipe it away. I don’t want to touch her at all for fear of how my body keeps reacting to her. But I can’t leave her sitting here with sauce on her face. “Here.” I dip my paper napkin into my water cup and wipe off the spot. I try to ignore the heat-charged ripple across my skin when she goes absolutely still and focuses those blue eyes on me.

“Thanks.” She goes back for another bite of her burger while I try to recover enough to speak normally.

“And in answer to your question, they’re not…randos. My day starts at five and ends a few hours after I put my son to bed. Mostly, I do the pickups and drop-offs, but if I can’t, I rely on employees or friends. And yes, sometimes I’m late, or I forget about a playdate or an appointment, but I’m doing more than most two-parent families, I swear. And when Scout falls asleep, I read or do a crossword puzzle, and then I crash.”

I’m aware for the first time of how quiet my life sounds when I describe it. I’ve never minded it because it gave me maximum time with Scout, but I wonder how it sounds to her. “Probably the polar opposite of your life. I imagine LA life gives you plenty of time down by the beach, rooftop bars, celebrity spotting.”

She doesn’t answer immediately, and I wonder if I offended her. She drags a French fry through the paper cup of ketchup and chews on it.

“See, you said you have no free time. But you clearly have time to watch the Real Housewives.” She grabs another fry and eats it without the ketchup.

I close my eyes, caught in my absurd assumption which isn’t even based on a TV show. “Sorry. I just meant your life is probably a little bit exciting.”

She laughs. “My life is good, but that’s because I make it good. I join hiking or trail running groups and meet new people that way, and try out different jobs to keep it interesting…” Callie looks down at the fries and frowns. She pushes them away, and when her gaze returns to mine, some of the confidence is gone. “Or I get fired, and that keeps it interesting…” She bites down on her lip and looks away.

I start putting pieces together about why she suddenly has free time to help me. “What was your last job?”

She describes her job at Glam Squad and explains why she was fired, which sounds like a bullshit reason to me. “It’s fine. It’s not like decorating their offices was my fantasy job. It’s a stop on the road.”

“What’s the fantasy job?”

“Ha. Well, if I knew that, I’d probably be closer to getting the job, right? I guess I’m just a late bloomer. Still figuring out my life plan.” She takes one more bite of her burger, wipes her mouth, and tosses the napkin onto the plate. “How about you, Tractor Tom? Is running a ranch your dream job?”

I flinch at the new nickname and pop the rest of my burger into my mouth. Chewing, I mull this question I never bothered to ask myself.

“I don’t really think in terms of dream jobs.”

“Why not?”

“There’s no point. My job is what it is. I’m from two generations of ranchers, and I’m good at it. This is my life regardless of any dreams.”