I smile, pleased that he actually remembered something his sister told him I made. “Yes, it identifies constellations, and also factors in your local light pollution levels, weather conditions, and even sends you notifications like ‘Tonight is the best night this month to see the Milky Way from your location’ or ‘Saturn'srings will be most visible in 2 hours.’ It lets users set preferences for what they want to see (planets, meteor showers, satellites, ISS passes, etc.) and creates a personalized viewing calendar.”
“Wow, that’s impressive…and pretty damn cool,” he says, tapping the table absentmindedly.
I fight the heat spreading over my cheeks.
Then I tell him about the offer from TechFlow Solutions, and the salary and stock options…the meetings and the brand guidelines and how the thought of it makes me ill even though it's exactly what I'm supposed to want.
"But you don't want it," he says.
"It's stable. Respectable. My parents would finally take me seriously." I steal a fry from the basket the waitress drops off.
"That's not what I said."
I look at him and see honest concern in those gray eyes. Not judgment. Or that dismissive coldness I'm used to. It’s like he actually cares what I think, and what I want for my future.
"No," I admit. "I don't want it. I want to keep making weird apps that solve problems nobody knew they had. I want to run with an idea and build it without asking permission or fitting it into someone else's little box.”
"So don't take the job."
"That's not how adulting works, Harlon."
“You’re going to tell a forty-one year old man that?” He leans back, arms crossed. "You're good at what you do. You're making money—maybe not Fortune 500 money, but enough to make you happy, right? Why would you give that up for a job that makes you miserable?"
"Because that's what successful people do?"
“Uh-uh, that's what miserable people do." He says it with such conviction that I blink. "Life's too short to spend it doing something that doesn’t fulfill you."
Our food arrives, and I take a bite of shepherd's pie to avoid responding. It's delicious—rich and savory with a crisp mashed potato crust.
"And what’s new in the Grand Tetons?” I ask, shifting the conversation over to him.
He smirks. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Why you love it. What you actually do all day. Whether you've seen more bears since your run-in at nineteen.”
He laughs—that low, rumbling sound I'm rapidly becoming addicted to—and starts talking about elk migration and avalanche prevention and a wolf pack that recently denned near the south entrance. He’s animated as he talks, eyes lighting up in a way I've never seen before.
Jayce used to talkatmeabout his work—monologues about tactical procedures and chain of command. Harlon talkswithme, pausing to see if I'm following, asking my opinions.
He steals a forkful of my shepherd's pie, and I retaliate by taking some of his pot roast.
When he gets gravy on his chin, I reach across with my napkin and wipe it away without thinking.
My thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth for just a second.
I’m doomed.
After lunch, Harlon insists we head to the general store to properly restock the cabin.
"We used their supplies. We replace them," he says as we walk through the snow. "It’s common courtesy."
And god help me, that damn sense of responsibility is horribly attractive.
The general store is crowded, and we split up to gather supplies more efficiently. I find instant coffee, canned soup, matches. When I circle back to find Harlon, he's talking to an elderly woman about firewood, his expression patient and kind as she tells him about her grandson in the Army.
Jayce would've been checking his phone, eager to move on. But Harlon…he just listens respectfully.
I grab a small gift while he's distracted—a hand-carved wooden bear ornament. It's silly, but I want him to have something from me. Something that marks this strange and wonderful interlude before it’s over.
