“You think the Cardinal Springs phone tree doesn’t make long-distance calls?”
“I think you should worry less about what your mother will think and more about whatyouthink.”
“Ithink that I don’t want the entire town talking about me baring my ass in a quarry.”
Dan nods. “Well, that I can understand.”
“Right? And if they’re talking about me baring my ass in a quarry, they’ll probably also be talking aboutyoubaringyourass in a quarry. And I’m pretty sure I can guess how you feel about that.”
He visibly shudders.
I splash him. “You don’t even live here! You get to leave! What do you care, really? I, on the other hand, have to stay and run into them in the grocery store and sit in the next booth at Pete’s and teach their children how to count to ten.”
Dan looks confused. “You don’t have to stay here.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you can teach kindergarten anywhere, I would think.”
“Right, but…I have the house.”
He shrugs. “It’s in your name. That makes it an asset. You can sell it and take the money wherever you want to go.”
The sound of him talking finance bro to me turns me on, but I’m also stuck on the idea that I could leave. It’s never occurred to me that I could sell the house. My parents gave me that house. I grew up in that house. It’s full of memories, and selling it just seems…I don’t know, like bad manners? It would be like returning a Christmas gift for cash. I have always worn the scratchy sweater, used the perfume that gave me a headache, lied about how excited I was to read the book I already owned rather than be rude to the people who gave those things to me.
But it’s not my dream house. It’s just the house that was given to me. Believe me, I know how unbelievably lucky I am to have it. But it’s a house, not an obligation. Not a museum.
“I could sell the house,” I say, trying it out. I say it again, louder this time, so it echoes around the quarry. “I could sell the house!”
Dan grins. “Where would you go? If you could go anywhere?”
I pause. “I don’t know,” I confess. I’ve never been very far from home. My four years at college forty-five minutes away are as far as this little bird has ever flown from the nest.
“Well…what’s someplace that makes you happy? The mountains? The beach? A big city?”
I think for a moment, then a moment longer, because my initial answer feels too boring. Too safe. And I’m trying not to be either of those things anymore. That’s why I’m naked in a quarry in the middle of the night. But nothing else comes, and I don’t want Dan to stop talking, so I confess.
“Bloomington,” I say.
“Bloomington?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s only forty-five minutes from Cardinal Springs, but it feels like another planet. And I actuallylike a smaller town, the slower pace of life. I’d just like to live in one where everyone hasn’t known me since the day I was born. One where people don’t know all the embarrassing stories from middle school that I was supposed to be able to grow up and escape. And I love Bloomington. It’s really artsy, and it’s got good restaurants. I like being close to the university. The energy is really good, and there are always things going on—concerts, speakers, festivals. And I like the idea that I could take a class if I wanted. Like, if I wanted to pick up some Italian or learn art history or take jiujitsu. Plus the houses are gorgeous, especially downtown, not that I could afford one even if I sold my house. There’s this one neighborhood that has all these gorgeous Craftsmans. It’s walking distance from a huge park and a community pool, and when I think of my dream life, it’s having a kid someday and being able to walk them to the library or the playground or ride bikes around the park, all steps from my big old house with a wide front porch and a fenced-in backyard for cookouts or reading in a hammock. I want gleaming old wood, polished mahogany, not some all-white millennial nightmare. I want a banister and built-in cabinets and a window seat. And I want that lemon wallpaper in my kitchen so I can look at it while I bake or cook dinner while drinking a glass of wine. I want my kitchen to be sunny even on the coldest, snowiest, grayest days of January.”
I don’t know if I’m nervous-babbling or confessing.
But Dan still seems to be listening.
I’ve been staring at the sky, taking in the dark expanse of night and the twinkling stars, but when I glance over at Dan, he’s looking right at me. He’s treading water, the inky darkness rippling out around him with his sure, steady movements. And his focus is entirely on me. I can practically see him listening.
My cheeks burn at his attention. I immediately try to play back everything I’ve just said, scanning the tape for errors or missteps, cataloguing potential embarrassments. I try to imagine what it was like for him to hear me say those things, what he thinks, if I’ve come across how I imagined I would.
And as if he can hear the steady thrum of my intrusive thoughts, his brow furrows.
“That sounds perfect, Carson. I want that for you. The house, the park, the jiujitsu classes,” he says, then swallows. “The kid.”
Something in my brain sizzles, like on those medical shows where they futz around in someone’s brain with probes while they’re awake and suddenly the patient starts speaking gibberish.
Unfortunately, the weird thing I say in this moment, naked in a quarry with Dan McBride, is, “Do you want kids?”
